My Soul to Keep
by First Weaver
Summary: Himura Kenshin is long dead.  Kenny Harris is alive.  It's that simple-only it isn't.
1. Darkness Before The Dawn

Welcome to my opus. Enjoy the ride.

I do not own Rurouni Kenshin.

* * *

The sky looked like wet cement.

Kenny sat on the edge of the curb, waiting patiently in the chilly spring air. The sky kept acting like it wanted to drizzle, but wouldn't; occasionally Kenny felt a drop or two against his cheek, but the performance was lackluster at best.

The entire day had been that way. Kenny had turned in a paper in English that he knew wasn't going to do any better than a B, but he hadn't had the energy or incentive to make it any better. Math had been more geometry, which was so easy it was painfully boring, and he'd skived gym to miss dealing with jocks who thought that being five three and long-haired meant they had a good excuse to mess with him. That had sparked a trip to the principal's office after lunch and a lecture, then Spanish class and Government and AP science. He'd had to stay behind to ask the science professor about a typo on the homework that made it due next year instead of next week, and had ended up missing the bus.

Now he had to wait for his mom to come pick him up since his dad wouldn't let him get a car.

Sighing, Kenny rubbed his hands together to get them warm. As the sun went down 'early spring chill' was rapidly devolving to 'downright cold', and the heavy, blank cloud bank was looking more ominous by the minute.

He spent some time people-watching. A freshman girl with way too much eye makeup was leaning against a post under the covered walkway, thumbs going a mile a minute on the phone in her hands, apparently texting. Another couple was making out behind a tree. They probably thought they were well-hidden, but Kenny was betting that they were going to be caught as soon as that teacher quit adjusting the shoulder strap on his bag and looked up.

He was right. _At least I'm not the one getting detention_…

Another kid was leaning on the chain-link fence, smoking. Kenny thought he recognized him, but wasn't sure.

A car horn honked; Kenny looked around and there was his mom's silver Lexus, waiting ten feet away. He put his backpack in the trunk and got in the front seat, putting on his seatbelt. "Hi, Mom."

"Hello," Elen said, smiling timorously at him as though she wasn't quite sure. "How was your day?"

"Okay." Which wasn't really true, but there was nothing she could do about the truth, was there?

"Oh good," Elen said. She bit her lip like she was going to say something else, but didn't.

Those nine words seemed to use up their quota of conversation for the drive. Kenny wished for something to break the silence, but he didn't want to talk and Mom said the radio distracted her when she drove, and since it was starting to rain in earnest now he didn't want to make her nervous.

When they got home he put his backpack and jacket in the closet and went to change out of his school uniform into a pair of cotton pajama pants, a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and a pair of thick socks. If Dad had been home he'd never have gotten away with it, but Frank was on yet another business trip out of town. Mom didn't mind so much.

"Kenny?" Elen called up the stairs. "Dinner's ready."

Dinner tonight was soup and a salad—again, if Frank were home, Elen probably would've made pot roast or chicken Madeira or stuffed bell peppers, something fancier with more courses—but both of them preferred it simple. Dinner was almost as quiet as the drive home, with a few bland remarks about the weather and the food.

Just as Kenny was getting ready to go put his plate away, Elen took a deep breath and said, "I got a call from the principal today."

Kenny balled his hands into fists in his lap and said nothing.

"He said you skipped class again," Elen said. The words were almost a question, like she didn't want to believe it.

He was quiet.

"Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Elen sighed inaudibly, and said, "Why?"

"It was just gym!" Kenny stood, shoving his chair away behind him, unable to bear the disappointment in her eyes. "It's not like it was my AP class or anything. They just need to stay out of everybody's business!"

Not looking at her, he took his plate and bowl to the sink, pausing to scrape the leftovers into the trash.

"I'm sorry," Elen said, coming in behind him. "I know it's not as important as some of the other things you're doing, I just worry about you. I want you to be happy."

"It's fine," Kenny said. She was upset now, tears glimmering unshed in her pale eyes. "Forget about it."

"If you need any help…" Elen said haltingly.

"You'll be the first to know," Kenny said. He put his dishes in the dishwasher and without looking back took the stairs as fast as he could to his room.

The bedroom was as clean as hours of insomnia and boredom could make it, the bed made with hospital corners and vacuum marks in the corners where feet rarely trod. The dresser and computer desk were both free of dust, and a few novels were stacked in ascending order of size on the bedside table. Kenny picked one up and set it down again, frustrated at losing control of yet another conversation with his mother. It seemed like he hurt people no matter what he did.

He checked his e-mail; there were no messages.

Until five in the morning he did homework, Spanish and geometry; read a few chapters of his book and sketched a bit on a still-life project. Finally the lines were blurring before his eyes no matter how he blinked, and his head swam when he stood.

When Kenny crawled between his sheets they were cold, and he curled his feet up under himself, hoping sleep would come quick and gentle. He was so _tired_….

* * *

-_snow falling ice pink freezing blood enemy gone but no one saved paindeathcolddarkness-_

"Kenny! Sweetie, you're going to be late for school!"

Kenny woke with a gasp, heart pounding like he'd run a marathon. This was the eighth time he'd had this nightmare. Anticipation and familiarity only seemed to make it worse.

The glance he'd gotten at the alarm clock had said it was seven oh five, which meant he'd had a grand total of two hours' sleep, which brought his weekly total to… six hours and twenty minutes. Great.

"Are you up?" His mother's voice drifted up the stairs.

"Yeah!" Kenny sat up and scrubbed his face with his palms. "I'm up!"

He had to leave by seven twenty-five in order to be at school on time. That meant he had enough time to pull on some clothes, brush his teeth, grab a Pop-Tart, and get to the bus.

Standing (and the bout of nausea that came along with it) interrupted that plan. Kenny wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand and elected to skip the Pop-Tart.

He dozed most of the way to school, head resting against the window. He felt loopy, like he was high on too much cold medicine.

First period passed in a blur. Kenny doodled idly on a scrap of notebook paper, fighting to keep his eyes open over the teacher's drone. His eyelids felt heavy and leaden, grainy, his head stuffed with cotton. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep, couldn't _afford_ to sleep.

Kenny glanced down at his drawing, realized it was the rough etching of a woman's face, and hastily crumpled it up. He stuck it in his pocket for later disposal.

"Kenny!" The voice cracked through the air like a whip, and suddenly he was staring at his locker door, trying to remember the combination. He turned and there was Sam, the tall, wild-haired senior who had the locker next to his since he'd moved in a few months ago; the older jock had always been inexplicably friendly, despite the different social strata in which they moved.

"Sam," he acknowledged.

"Hey man." Sam lounged casually against the locker, the ends of his red bandanna fluttering. "Haven't seen you much lately."

"Been busy," Kenny said evasively, reaching into his locker to grab a book. He didn't know what book it was—or what class he had next. He had a headache….

"We should do something," Sam's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Y'know, hang out or something."

Kenny nodded. "Uh… yeah…." He shook his head, hoping to clear it of the buzzing. Sam's voice reminded him of _something_….

"You okay?" Sam's face swam back into blurry view. "You look kinda sick."

"I'm fine," Kenny said, pressing his fingertips against his temples. He could almost remember—

"Sure you don't want to see the nurse? She's the master of headaches. Concussions, too, come to think of it…."

_Master… mastery… Mastery of the two layers! Futaae no kiwami!_

"You—you're—!" Kenny managed. Then he blacked out.

"Crap, Kenshin!" He thought he heard a voice as he slipped into unconsciousness. "I didn't know you'd _remembered_!"

_Kenshin_, Kenny thought. _That's _his_ name—_

Darkness claimed him.

* * *

Bright lights; loud voices; a dull, pressing pain in his hand: It washed over him like a wave over a dune, wearing away at him. _I don't understand…_ the thought floated up from a morass of confused emotional memories. _I was fighting the Shinsengumi… and then Sam came…._

"Mr. Harris!" A loud, cheerful, insistent voice grated on his senses. "Mr. Harris, can you hear me?"

"Go 'way," Kenshin mumbled.

"Come on, Mr. Harris," the voice prodded. "Dr. Thomas is here to see you."

_Megumi…?_ He opened his eyes and immediately shielded them from the bright overhead lights. "What…?"

"Hey, Kenny." A woman's voice, warm and gentle. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

"_Hai_, Megumi-dono," he murmured. "_Sessha… sessha_ hears you."

"Kenny, it's Mary Thomas, your doctor," the voice sharpened with concern. "Do you know where you are?"

"Some hospital," he said thickly. "I don't know which."

It looked, after all, like any other hospital in which he'd ever been: Dim now that his eyes had adjusted and astringent-smelling, with a plastic bed and a single lumpy chair. A small bathroom was attached, but there were no windows, no sharp protrusions, and the lock was on the outside.

"The psych ward," he realized aloud. There was the doctor, a tall, voluptuous woman; and the nurse, a blunt-faced overweight creature with a penetrating voice; his mother, a crumpled, stained handkerchief in her hand, eyes red-rimmed, lingered in the doorway twisting her fingers.

"Boston Regional," Mary— Mary? — her voice felt like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know," he said, and it was true. He felt spacey and disconnected; nothing really _hurt_, per se, but something didn't feel quite right.

"Do you want to see your mom?" The nurse asked.

"No," he said, and there came a low wail from the doorway. _My mother's dead… cholera…._

"Alright," the doctor said. "I'm just going to leave Terry here to sit with you while I go talk to some people, okay?"

"_Hai_," he said. Heaviness was tugging at his senses, and suddenly he wanted to sleep more than anything else in the world. "_Gomen, sensei_… _sessha_ is so tired…."

"Then sleep." Dr. Thomas brushed her fingers over his forehead, and as though her touch was magic, he was falling… into a bloody rain….

* * *

"Mrs. Harris," Dr. Mary Thomas was _tired_. "How are you holding up?"

The elegant, expensive woman dabbed at her eyes with a lacy scrap of handkerchief. "Oh, doctor, I'm f-fine. How's my baby?"

Mary resisted the urge to rub her temples. "I'll need further assessment to be sure, but I think he had a psychotic episode. What was going on that preceded the attack, do you know?"

The hand-wringing began anew. "Well, it was Spring Break last week, you know, so he went to a conference with his father in New York, but he was home all weekend. I've called his father, he's on his way—well, he was up in his room all weekend, Kenny, that is, and he didn't want to go to school this morning, but Frank said if I was just firm with him—"

"So this happened at school?" Mary prodded. She'd never get through this woman's drivel if she didn't interrupt.

"Yes, it was that awful boy, Samuel Adams," Mrs. Harris said. "Delinquent, doesn't come from a very nice family, not at all. I do believe his parents named him after the alcoholic beverage, can you believe?"

"No," Mary said shortly. She was hoping the father arrived soon, so she could deal with him instead. "Did this Adams boy do or say something?"

"I sent him away," Mrs. Harris said. "He cut his classes to come up here. Kenny didn't say anything about a bullying problem…."

Sensing she'd get no further with this line of questioning, Mary switched tactics. "So when he was in his room, what was he doing?"

"Drawing, mostly." Mrs. Harris said. "Pictures of Asian people, some Asian city, we've never even been out of the country, and we don't live anywhere near Chinatown, I don't understand!"

"I'll talk to him," Mary promised. "In the meantime, could you maybe bring some of those drawings up to the hospital?"

"Of course," Mrs. Harris nodded, her earbobs bouncing. "Whatever you need, Doctor."

"How has he been sleeping lately?" Mary asked.

"Not well," Mrs. Harris said. She sniffed a little bit. "I hear him at moving around at night, and sometimes he makes noises in his sleep. He's got these awful black circles under his eyes, and—"

"What kind of noises?" Mary positively pounced on that bit of pertinent information.

"Crying," Mrs. Harris said haltingly. "And—and moaning…." She hiccoughed. "I went to him once, you know. He was fourteen and yelling his head off, and I went to him, and I went to help him, and he—he sh-shoved m-me."

"You mean he was violent?" Mary asked sharply.

"No!" Mrs. Harris's eyes were puffy, and her denial verged on hysterical. "He wasn't even awake, I d-don't think he even s-saw me! But he was _scared_, doctor. My baby was t-ter-terrified!"

"Take a few deep breaths," Mary said, putting a comforting hand on the older woman's shoulder. "Okay. It's okay, we're going to get some meds and a psych consult. Everything's going to be okay."

Mrs. Harris swiped at her eyes with the lacy handkerchief. "I can't help but wonder if it's my fault. Kenneth's adopted, you know, when he was two years old. I decided to keep it a secret from him, and I wonder if that's—maybe that's why he doesn't trust me."

"Trust is a big issue for someone with depression," Mary said diplomatically. "We're going to work with your whole family, Mrs. Harris. Now I have to go write some orders. Why don't you go get some coffee and sit with him for a while?"

Mrs. Harris nodded tearfully and wandered back toward the nurse's station.

Mary gave her a long, unreadable look, then turned and stalked back past the rest of the patient rooms, past the elevator and found a dark corner next to the janitor's closet. She dug her phone out of a pocket of her scrubs. She punched in the first number on her speed dial and waited impatiently for the man on the other end to pick up.

"Hiko-_sama_? It's so much worse than we thought."

* * *

Kenny watched lethargically as the pretty young nurse attached a syringe to a port on his IV tubing. He had no idea what the clear medication was—Peggy was yammering about nausea and the side effects of drugs.

_If you'd seen as much blood as I have, you'd be sick too,_ he thought. _It's not the drugs._

Not that the anti-psychotics weren't making him totally loopy. His nighttime visions had been even more chaotic and bloody than usual, a kaleidoscope melee of flashing swords, glittering stars, and red blood on blue jackets.

"Shinsengumi-blue, Choshuu-blue," it sounded almost sing-song. "Not that much difference in the end…."

There came a shriek from down the hall, and Kenny flinched. There was a woman in room 302 who thought there were worms trying to eat her brain, crawling in while she slept. She always woke terrified and screaming.

He glanced up and realized the nurse had gone and that he didn't know when it had happened.

"God," he buried his tired, grainy eyes in one hand and felt them water. "God, I want out of here."

There came a tap on the door, and Kenny called dully, "Come in."

His mother—his shy, timid, fussy mother—entered softly, wringing her hands in agitation. "Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Her hand-wringing intensified. "Well, that's good, because I just wanted… um… to tell you, that is, I mean—" she took a deep breath. "Your father's here."

"Oh," Kenny said. He couldn't think of anything more coherent.

Frank Harris came in through the open door. He was a tall man, with iron-gray hair and a furrow between his brows. At forty-four years old he was still healthy and fit, and stayed so by vigorous exercise. He was the founder of a wealthy, successful business and owned lucrative stock elsewhere. Discipline and hard work were the two values that he prized most highly.

Kenny had never felt like he quite measured up.

"How are you feeling?" The furrowed brow was creased in concern.

"Fine," Kenny repeated, picking at a loose thread in the sheets. Dad's overbearing presence and the way he towered over Kenny, stuck in the low bed, intimidated the boy, which in turn infuriated him. _Deep breaths. Don't be angry. Not after what happened in New York…._

"You look awful," Dad observed, tilting Kenny's chin up for a better look at his face. "All gray."

Kenny resisted the frighteningly powerful impulse to jerk his head away and slam a fist into the older man's solar plexus. _Deep breaths…._

"We're flying in a specialist from Austria," he continued, releasing Kenny's chin. "His name's Nielson, he's supposed to be the best. Dr. Thomas recommended him; he's an incredible psychiatric physician. He'll be able to help us."

"Okay," Kenny said. An awkward silence settled.

"He'll be here the day after tomorrow," Mr. Harris said. "It's the earliest we could get him. Austria, you know. Pretty far away." He cleared his throat. "Well. I have a meeting in half an hour that I can't miss. –But I'll be back after lunch, maybe with some decent food. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Kenny shrugged. "If you want to."

Mr. Harris nodded, lingering in the doorway. "Alright. Feel better, son."

Another scream echoed down the hall, and Kenny felt like it was bottled up inside _him_.

* * *

Dr. Henry Nielson, MD, PhD, and master of Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu, was seated in his private plane about to take off with a very cranky pilot who'd been woken out of a sound sleep. It was currently three in the morning and he was irritated beyond reason.

"Mary, you'd better not be exaggerating." He grumbled over the roar of the takeoff, though he knew Mary Thomas was far too professional to exaggerate. "I'm going to kill that idiot Sam," he decided, shifting in his seat to accommodate the armrest digging into his ribs. "Moron was supposed to be watching him."

As though that thought was a summons, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Nielson thumbed a virtual button on the screen and growled, "You'd better have a fantastic excuse."

"It's not my fault!" Sam protested on the other end. "He seemed like he was doing okay, and you know how quiet he is—"

"I don't care!" Nielson barked. "You know that and I know that, and that means you should have paid more attention!"

"School's been out for the past week," Sam sounded unbearably aggrieved over the tinny cell phone static. "Or did you forget that it was Spring Break?"

He had. "I did not," Nielson said with great dignity. "Alright, I guess you did fine. Have you seen him since he was hospitalized?"

"Yeah, Mary snuck me in while his mom was gone. He wouldn't talk to me."

"At all?" Nielson ruthlessly suppressed a flutter of uneasy fear in his stomach.

"Well, he answered yes-and-no type questions, but other than that…"

"Alright," Nielson said. "I'll be there early tomorrow morning, your time. We'll get lunch after I've seen him."

"Got it. How's Kathy holding up?" Sam asked.

"Fine. She's in the restroom right now."

"Just watch her, okay? She gets airsick sometimes."

The cynical doctor allowed himself a small smile. "Stop being a mother hen, bird-brain. Kathy will be perfectly safe with _me_."

Sam began to squawk—_rather like a chicken_, Nielson thought with no small amusement—but eventually he convinced the boy to shut up and hang up.

Nielson dozed a bit as the engines rumbled in the background. His pleasant daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of a pale-complected young woman with a faintly greenish tinge in her cheeks. She gingerly lowered herself into the seat across from him. She was long and lean, all legs, and very pretty with her long black hair and big blue eyes.

"Already airsick?" He asked.

"Not airsick," the girl said, forcing the words past pursed lips. "Heartsick."

"Ah," the doctor said. "Worried about him, are you?"

She nodded miserably.

Nielson patted her hand. "It's taken a long time to find him, but we're going to make sure all is well. It's going to be alright."

Kathy gave him a firm nod. "This plane better not be late," she said threateningly.

Nielson laughed out loud.


	2. This Is How The World Ends

Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers: thebestIcan, donhisiewen, kokoronagomu, Althea M, chizuru, Emi Violet, t42n24t2, Inuchron, RoseCrystal, and SeaSaltChocolate.

I answer to a question several of you reviewers asked, yes, this is a reincarnation fic. All the major players from the manga will eventually be introduced, along with..*shudder*... a few OCs. Be afraid. Be very afraid...

I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, or the poetry of TS Eliott (from whom the titular quote is shamelessly pilfered).

* * *

__

_He'd never been in so much pain in his life: physically, spiritually, or emotionally. _Tomoe…_ his head throbbed in time with his back, the cut in his hand, and the many terrible lacerations slashed deep into his flesh. _She's gone… forever….

_He clenched that injured fist, hoping the physical sensation of pain would fill part of the awful, aching voice in his soul._

_It didn't help._

_Gentle hands pried his fingers open, and a cool cloth carefully wiped away the blood._

"_I know you miss her," such a kind, kind voice—whose was it? He couldn't place a name to the sound, but the voice brought associations of respect, tea, honor, music, and guilt. "But you must _live_, Himura. The new era needs you."_

_I want to die._

_

* * *

_

_He was burning—the bite in his shoulder was a dull burn, the burn in his side ached, and the burn on his chest was a clawing, mind-eating pain. He'd long ago kicked off his covers; it was too _hot_._

_The air was sticky and still as it rested on him, like a stifling quilt. His throat was miserably dry._

_But he _would not_ cry out._

_The _shoji_ slid aside to admit a slim, _kimono-_clad figure. She knew. Somehow she always knew. She dribbled cold, clear water between his dry cracked lips and nothing had ever tasted so sweet. Then her hands were on his forehead, cheeks, and neck—the backs, because she thought her palms were too rough—smooth and cool with comforting relief._

_I want it not to hurt anymore._

_

* * *

_

_It was bitter, the taste of failure in his mouth, but not half so bitter as losing her. He was alone in that filthy village, alone and abandoned by his friends, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore._

_I want it to end…._

_

* * *

_

—Someone was shaking him. "Wake up, honey. C'mon, wake up."

His eyes opened slowly. Diagnostic monitors gleamed like red and green eyes in the half-dark, and a woman in bright, loose clothes was bent over him.

Her hands went to the plastic band on his wrist. "I need to give you some meds. Can you tell me your name?"

Still sleepy, he answered, "_Wa Himura Kenshin, de gozaru yo_."

A puzzled expression crossed her face. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"My name is Himura Kenshin," he repeated.

"Your band says Kenny Harris," she sounded concerned now. "Can you tell me the year? Or where you are?"

His heart nearly stopped when he realized what he'd done. "Get out," he told the nurse, frightened of what he might do to her.

"I'm going to take your vitals—"

"GET OUT!" He roared, rearing back and snatching the watcher pitcher off the table. "Do you hear me? _Get out!_"

She was backing away. "Kenny—"

He threw the pitcher and it missed her head by two or so inches, exploding against the wall in a wet shower of ice.

The nurse turned and fled.

Kenny got out of bed. The IV line tugged at his hand, and he yanked it out, wincing at the rip of the tape coming off.

He went to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, wedging his back against it. His hands shook, and he stared at them. _I've finally cracked. He's taking over._

_I've lost my mind_.

* * *

"Dr. Nielson! Thank God you're here."

Nielson nodded to Mary. "Dr. Thomas. I got your message. What's the situation?"

"Awful," she said, leading him to a corner of the nurse's station where she had an open chart, two pens, and a cup of old coffee. "He attacked a nurse last night."

"He _what_?" Nielson said.

Mary sighed. "She woke him up to give him a dose of Haldol, and he threw a pitcher of water at her. Here, I think you'd better read the note."

Nielson took the chart and scanned the nursing shorthand:

VS T:98.7 P:147 R:32 BP:132/96 O2:100%. A/A/Ox2 not oriented to self or situation pt states name is "Hemura Kenshun" displayed violent behavior toward HCP PERRLA 7mm skin pale and diaphoretic no IV access line pulled out by pt mepilex dressing applied to L hand REL LCTA active BS Ativan 0.5 mg IM to R deltoid restraints applied per Dr. Mary Thomas MD see flowsheet. C. Bean RN

"Damn," Nielson breathed. "How is he now?"

"I ordered a CBC, a CMP, and a tox screen," Mary said. "He's anemic, malnourished and has a lot of antipsychotics in his system. I've stopped the antipsychotics and we've got him under twenty-four hour observation. The Ativan knocked him completely out. I didn't want to do anything else until you got here."

"You did fine," Nielson said absently. Then, in an undertone, "Is the dormant personality emerging, then?"

Mary nodded. "Yes, I think so. He's doing his best to suppress it…"

"Knowing that idiot, he just might manage it." Nielson rolled his eyes. "We need to transfer him to Private Services," he continued, "Because you know Tabitha is going to want to see him."

"How is Tabby?" Mary asked.

"Dying." Nielson said shortly. "She's got three weeks left, tops. I've got enough morphine in her that she's not hurting, but she keeps asking for him."

"We'll have him ready in time," Mary assured him. "We got through to Ashley, didn't we?"

"Ashley at least understood it was real," Nielson said. He sighed. "What's the family like?"

Mary made a face. "Totally clueless. Mother's practically a psych case herself, and father means well but thinks a drug and a few counseling sessions are going to fix everything."

Nielson nodded. "Okay. I'll go see him and talk to the family about the transfer. You call Private Services and make the arrangements."

"Alright." Mary unexpectedly grinned a rather foxy grin. "Go easy on the parents? They're only human."

Nielson snorted. "I make no promises."

The doctor was a tall man, fit, imposing, and broad-shouldered, and when he walked down the hall people parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. In his white-and-red suit he stalked down the hall to Kenny's room.

He paused at the door, listening carefully listening for presences other than his patient. Hearing only the soft breathing of a person heavily sedated, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him. The room was dim, lighted by a vague ambience that crept around the thick blinds covering the window. It was very quiet.

The boy was lying on the bed, too still to be natural; the blankets were smooth and neat, the single pillow unrumpled. A single IV line ran into his right hand, left atop the blanket. Pale as a ghost, a loose cranberry-red halo of hair spread on the pillow only accentuated his pallor. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were parted slightly as he breathed.

"_Baka deshi_," Nielson said affectionately, laying one broad hand on the soft red head. "I can't believe it's come to this, but don't worry. This time I know you a little better—I won't let it happen again."

Nielson peeled back the boy's covers, revealing a toothpick-slender form. He frowned; there were soft but durable cuffs on Kenny's wrists and ankles, securing him firmly to the bed.

With a snort of irritation he undid the knots. "You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to," he muttered under his breath. "You're still small—not as bad as last time, your nutrition's been better, but still…."

Mary poked her head in. "Sir? The family's out here—they want to speak to you."

"Of course they do," Nielson said sardonically.

He smoothed Kenny's bangs of his forehead one more time in a last quick gesture that was almost unconscious, and went to deal with a doctor's ultimate horror—_the family._

Pasting on an 'appropriately serious but not too grave' expression on his face, he stepped out the door. His immediate impression was of a wealthy couple, so normal they were almost a caricature. "Good morning," Nielson said. "I'm Doctor Henry Nielson."

"Good morning, doctor. I'm Frank Harris, and this is my wife Elen." This was Kenny's adoptive father, Nielson knew, a man in a well-tailored suit and a none-too-bright expression. His wife, a stunningly attractive woman with red-rimmed eyes and a nervous habit, broke in.

"How is little Kenny?" she sniffed. "Is he okay, doctor?" she looked up at him with big, wet, imploring eyes. Nielson successfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Physically, he seems fine." Nielson said. "I've removed the restraints and ordered the sedative stopped—"

"Thank God," Mrs. Harris breathed.

Nielson nodded to her. "Yes, everything has been stopped until I can assess his mental condition. But from what Dr. Thomas and the nurses have told me…" he paused, aware of the need for diplomacy. "It sounds like he may need to be transferred to a different kind of facility."

Mr. Harris put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "What kind of facility?"

"I run a clinic for people like Kenny," Nielson said carefully. "Teenagers who are having trouble coping with the demands placed on them. Once there, I could work with him one on one, and he could get some insight from others kids with the same problems."

"Kenny does not have 'problems'." Mr. Harris's face had hardened. "Sure, he's having some trouble with high school, what kid doesn't? Where is this clinic, anyway?"

Nielson knew where this was heading. "Mount Hohenzollern, overlooking Hechingen, in Germany. It's only a few hours outside of Berlin."

"Europe!" Mr. Harris exclaimed. "Out of the question! Why can't you treat him here?"

"I do have other patients," Nielson allowed his voice to be cold, a little bit intimidating. "And I cannot pick up my entire practice and move to America for six months." _I would move heaven and earth for him, but they don't need to know that._

"Six months," Mr. Harris repeated. "He doesn't need six months of anything, much less in some European sob-factory! Give him some anti-depressants, get us a referral to a local psychiatrist; all he needs is to get his act together."

Nielson's eyes flashed. "You seem to be operating under the delusion that your son's illness is not serious," he hissed. "I don't know where you got that impression, but allow me to correct it for you."

"I don't see—" Mr. Harris began.

"I'm not finished!" Nielson roared. "If you don't allow me to treat him, I can guarantee you that Kenny will commit suicide within the next month." A bit of an exaggeration. Maybe. Nielson had no way to know, but better safe than sorry.

Mrs. Harris's hands went to her mouth, and her eyes were round as saucers; Mr. Harris had gone pale and his fists were clenched. _Good. A reaction. _Nielson pressed on.

"You'll wake up some morning," he predicted, "and go upstairs to wake him up and force him to go to school and there'll be blood on the sheets where he's slit his wrists, or an empty bottle of pills on the table, and a note: 'Dear Mom and Dad, sorry I couldn't handle dealing with everything by myself—'"

"Stop!" Mrs. Harris almost shrieked. Her hands were shaking, but she was surprisingly collected. "Doctor, Kenny can go with you."

"Elen!" Mr. Harris turned with a horrified look on his face. "He's just trying to scare us. It's not that bad…."

"Frank!" She rounded on him like a Chihuahua on a Doberman. "I don't think he is. We got him because he's the best, right? I don't want to take the chance that he might be right." Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to lose my baby."

Mr. Harris seemed a bit flabbergasted. At any rate, his mouth was working like a fish's.

Mrs. Harris turned her head up—way up—to look at Nielson. "Take Kenny to Germany, Dr. Nielson." She said. "And help him if you can. I'll sign whatever you need. Just—" her voice broke. "Just let me see him before you go."

Nielson nodded, clasping her cold little hand between both of his. "Of course. You have my word, madam." He turned to go finish making arrangements (and leave the couple to the inevitable argument) but Elen put a hand on his arm.

"Take these," she said, pressing a leader folder into his hands. "They're Kenny's drawings; Dr. Thomas said she wanted them. I hope they help."

"You made the right decision, Elen." Nielson said. "I'll take care of him."

Mrs. Harris sniffed tearfully. "God bless you, Dr. Nielson."

He gave her an ironic little salute and left to track down Mary, folder safely ensconced under his arm.

Mary was at the nurse's station, on the phone with Private Services. "…yes, that's right. Himura Kenshin… all the documentation will be under the name Kenneth Harris, goes by Kenny. Yes, I know it's short notice, what did you expect? Yeah, we'll have to arrange transportation for personal belongings…."

"Drawing supplies, too." Nielson said. "And I want bay windows in the studio and another heater installed as well."

Mary gave him a quizzical look, but relayed the orders. "…and we'll be there the day after tomorrow."

There was an audible squawk from the other end of the line.

Mary winced and pulled the phone away from her ear. "Yes, yes, I _know_ it's short notice, but it is Himura Kenshin we're talking about here. Look, do you want to argue with Hiko-_sama_? No? I didn't think so." She hung up and Nielson smirked at her.

"Oh, very nice." He said. "Are you just begging for the staff to eat you alive?"

"No," she said shortly. "It would help if you didn't give impossible orders."

Nielson shrugged. "Sorry. Do you know if there's a decent _sake_ joint around here?"

Mary sighed and shook her head. "No, there's not. The only thing around here with that kind of corrosive power is the hospital coffee. You're just going to have to be sober when you talk to Kenny."

"I am never drunk," Nielson said indignantly.

"Of course not." Mary gave him her best foxy grin. "Look, we'll go get something to eat. Where's Kathy?"

"I got her a room at the local Hyatt. She was jetlagged. Besides, I doubt Kenny's ready to see her yet."

"True. Come on, there's a seafood place a few blocks away."

* * *

Over lobster tails and crab pate (and a good red wine for Nielson) they opened the leather folder and perused its contents.

"These are very good," Nielson said, thumbing through the first few. There were landscapes and cityscapes; Nielson recognized nineteenth century Kyoto, a dilapidated cabin, and mountains.

"They're professional quality," Mary commented. "Put paints in his hands and you'd make millions."

"Hmm," Nielson said, and turned the page.

The portrait was arresting: in simple pastels and carefully blended strokes, a masterpiece had been created. A young, melancholy woman with soft black eyes looked over her bare shoulder, long black locks spilling down her neck and across her creamy throat.

"It's Tabby," Mary breathed.

"Yes," Nielson said, expression unreadable. "I've never seen its equal."

Mary looked at his face and hurriedly turned the page.

The scene unveiled next was very merry. Four people were posed before a traditional Japanese _engawa_: a young woman in kendo gear, a disreputable man with the sign for 'evil' on his jacket, a boy with a _shinai_ and a cocky grin, and a tall woman in _geta_ and a smock. A sword with a backwards blade lay off to the side, unsheathed, as though discarded.

"So he does remember," Mary said softly.

"Denial," Nielson said clinically. He turned the page.

Mary took one look at the ink-and-pencil page and broke into peals of hysterical laughter. "It's you!" she squeaked. "Did that actually happen?"

The picture was of a disgruntled Nielson in a gaudy red and white cape. His expression was foul, most likely because of the feathers and honey stuck in his long black hair.

"Yes," Nielson said darkly. "He was sitting tender for _weeks_ after that particular prank."

Mary's pager buzzed and she glanced down at it. "That means Kenny's awake. You ready?"

Nielson threw back the rest of his wine and stood. "Let's go." He left three hundred dollar bills on the table, not bothering to wait for change.

They walked to Mary's car, a sensible red model that she kept in pristine condition. Nielson slid into the passenger seat, knowing full well that Mary would drive like a maniac to get them where they were going in record time. He resolved not to look out the window if he could help it.

Mary tore out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell; she cruised past a semi with feet to spare and narrowly missed a dented minivan.

"What are you going to say to Kenny?" Mary asked conversationally.

"You know that sort of thing has to be played by ear." Nielson told her. "A lot depends on how woozy he is from the sedatives."

"Yes," Mary said, "But there's so much…."

"I know that!" Nielson snapped. "But I won't know how to deal with it until I've seen him."

"I'm sorry," Mary said. "I can't help but be worried about him. He's the most important, and he's had no support—"

"He's got it now," Nielson said with finality.

Mary dropped him off at the front door and zipped away to find a parking space; Nielson took the stairs two at a time and made it to the third floor in two and a half minutes.

"Where's the nurse for three oh six six?" he demanded.

A tall, lithe brunette looked up from her computer. "That would be me," she said, rising gracefully to meet him.

"Kenny Harris—is he awake?" Nielson said.

"He was a walkie talkie when I went in twenty minutes ago," she said. "Brand new bag of fluids and fresh ice. Totally withdrawn, though. I can't get him to make eye contact."

"Good enough," Nielson said. "Does he have any meds scheduled in the next couple of hours?"

"No…." the nurse said.

"Good." Nielson walked away.

He tapped on the door of room 3066, then opened it without waiting for a reply. The room was brightly lit: the lights overhead, over the sink, on the bed, and even in the bathroom were all burning. The window was cracked all four inches the safety device would allow, admitting a chill breeze.

The object of so much work, worry and labor was sitting in a chair by the window, feet tucked up under himself and shivering. His IV was disconnected, the pump turned off and the tubing

coiled neatly on the counter beside the sink. The catheter itself was in the trash can, and there was a line of dried blood on his wrist. He was staring out the window with a distant, melancholy expression.

"Good afternoon," he said softly, not wanting to startle the boy.

Kenny looked up slowly, as though his head was very heavy, and Nielson was taken aback by the lifelessness in his hollow eyes. He didn't speak.

"My name is Henry Nielson," the doctor said. "Dr. Thomas asked me to speak with you. How are you feeling?"

"Am I awake?" Kenny said hoarsely. His voice was just a wisp of itself.

"Why do you ask?" Nielson responded.

"I… don't know," Kenny said. He shrank in on himself; his fear was palpable. "Forget I asked."

"In response to your question, yes, you are awake," Nielson said. "Mind if I sit down?"

Kenny shrugged.

Nielson decided to start at the beginning. "So why are you in the hospital, Kenny?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know."

"So nothing happened at school?" Nielson pressed.

Kenny shook his head in a vague gesture.

Nielson changed tactics. "Your parents have given me permission to transfer you to my private facility in Europe," he said. "Our plane leaves in about six hours."

"_Europe_?" _That_ got a reaction. Kenny's head snapped up and he turned from the window. "Why?"

"We feel that you would get the best therapy there," Nielson said, keeping his tone bland.

"I don't have a problem!" Kenny's pale hand curled into a fist.

"If you don't have a problem, why are you here?" Nielson said. He was deliberately keeping his side of the conversation from being confrontational; at this point he just wanted information.

"I passed out at school," Kenny bit out. "It was probably low blood sugar or something."

"Maybe," Nielson acknowledged. "But that IV—which I see you've removed—was full of sugar water. Why haven't you been sent home?"

"I don't have to answer your questions," Kenny said. His hands, now wrapped around one another, were trembling.

"Actually, you do," Nielson said pleasantly. "Because until I'm satisfied that you're well-adjusted and coping well, I'm not going to write your discharge orders. You're a minor, so you can't leave without your parents actually taking you, and they _won't_ take you until I let them." Nielson smiled. "So you see, it will really be much easier to cooperate."

The stunned look on the kid's face was almost gratifying.

"Let's get started. Your medical history says that you've been treated for nightmares." Nielson lied. "Can you tell me when they started?"

"I was about eight," Kenny said, shooting him a sulky glare.

_Bingo_. "Are you still having them?" Nielson asked.

"Sometimes," Kenny hedged. Then, in an unexpected burst of candor, "They gave me pills when I was thirteen. I took all kinds of crap and nothing helped, some of them just made it worse. What can _you_ do that all those other doctors can't? Or am I just some kind of guinea pig to you?"

Nielson thought he could see tears in the corners of the boy's eyes. "I know about Himura Battousai," he said simply. "I know that you dream about the Bakumatsu, and about how your wife died." He cocked an eyebrow. "Still think I'm like all the others?"

Kenny stared at him in a kind of numb, horrified shock, big eyes wide. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," he managed.

"Oh, I think you do," Nielson said, his voice ever-so-slightly menacing. "How else would you have drawings of nineteenth century Kyoto?"

"Seen… pictures," Kenny stuttered.

"How did you see pictures of Hiko Seijuro XIII?" Nielson asked, opening the leather folder to a sketch of a dark-haired man in a white cape sitting beside a kiln, katana at his side. "There were never any photographs taken of him—ever. I'm _quite_ sure."

Face a sick shade of gray, Kenny shook his head, mouth working. "God…." He breathed. "What do you want?"

"Just a little cooperation," Nielson assured him. "I want you to come to Hohenzollern without a fuss and act like a decent human being. In return you'll get to make some friends, learn some new things, get your life back on track. Do we have a deal?"

Kenny's eyes flicked back and forth between the drawing and Nielson's face. The panic was still on his features when he whispered, "Yes."

"Good!" Nielson stood briskly. "The facility is quite different than anything you're used to. There are five other residents right now, each with their own apartment." He gave Kenny a stern look. "You're all expected to be at least civil with each other. We do everything you might at a normal school: bookwork, sports, cultural experiences. I expect everyone to write home at least once a week; you may do so more often if you wish." Nielson's smirk said he knew exactly how often that would be. "I think any other questions can wait until the flight."

Kenny was still staring at Nielson like he had two heads. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, "Do I have to see my parents before I go?"

Nielson paused, evaluating the implications of that question. "I'm not going to force you to," he said. "But your mother requested it and I think you should. Also, try to get a nap. It's a long flight. I'll be back in a few hours to get you to go to the airport."

He left without waiting for a reply.


	3. Rape of Ganymede

Thank you to all the awesomesauce reviewers: Leina, t42n24t2, geckohawaii, chizuru, Emi Violet, Inuchron, donhisiewen, Sea Salt Chocolate, korkoronagomu, Althea M, and Rose Crystal.

In this chapter I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, Greek mythology, or Niccolo Machiavelli. Though I do have a heavily dog-eared copy of _The Prince_. ^_^

_What is going on?_ Kenny thought, a little frantic. _Who IS he? How does he know?_

_He does look exactly like Hiko,_ a snide voice in the back of his head murmured.

_Hiko doesn't exist! _He snarled back at it.

_Nielson thinks he does_, the voice pointed out.

Muttering an oath, Kenny got to his feet and began to pace, which was, incidentally, the reason he'd taken out the IV in the first place. He'd seen various nurses shut off the pump often enough to figure it out himself.

Kenny didn't want to admit it, but he was _scared_. He'd spent his whole life hiding the contents of his nightmares, if not their existence, and in the course of a single conversation had been read like a book by a man with the power to put him away for the rest of his life.

_What am I going to do?_ He wondered. _I can't get out of this stupid hospital, so I'll have to go to Europe… what is he going to try to make me do? I'm _sick_ of therapy. Maybe if I just play along? But he seems pretty sharp. Will I be able to fool him?_

With an animal noise of frustration, Kenny gripped his hair in both hands and sank back onto the bed. He was exhausted, but the last thing he wanted to do was sleep. His stomach was sick and cramping painfully, and had been ever since Nielson's revelation; had there been anything in him he would have retched.

_Beat them at that, anyway,_ he thought with a kind of perverse satisfaction. They were constantly trying to force food down his throat: breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks and protein shakes. He'd flushed it all down the toilet and lied blandly that yes, it tasted fine, thanks very much.

Exhausted beyond telling, Kenny put a cold hand over his burning eyes. He did not sleep—_did not dare sleep_—but his mind sank into a thoughtless stupor that was neither the terror of sleeping nor the grind of waking, but some misery in between.

Nielson had Mary drop him off at the Hyatt where Kathy was resting. He had an unpleasant conversation that he needed to have with her and was not looking forward to it.

He swiped the card in the lock and opened the door quietly, so as not to disturb her if she was sleeping, but Kathy was sitting up in bed reading a novel in a desultory fashion. She looked up at the sound of the door opening, eyes lit up with anticipation, but her face fell when she saw he was alone.

"Did you leave him at the hospital?" She asked.

"Yes," Nielson said. He sat in one of the uncomfortably small chairs. "Kathy, listen. I've gotten his parents' permission to take him to Hohenzollern, but he's not exactly excited about it."

Kathy grinned. "That sounds about right. He's as stubborn as a pig, and when he gets his mind set on something…" she shrugged. "That's pretty much that."

"He doesn't believe his dreams are real," Nielson said. "And I don't think it would be smart for you to take the flight back with us. I'll send you to stay with Mary for a while."

Kathy's smile slipped. "What do you mean?"

"I'm concerned about a number of things," Nielson said. "Bad enough that Tabby is dying and he'll have to deal with that; he doesn't believe any of his dreams are real. He has always had very strong feelings for you, and I'm concerned that they may drive him to do something drastic." Nielson braced himself for the inevitable fury of Katherine Samuels.

Furious little tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. "You're wrong. He's too strong for that. All we have to do is talk to him, you'll see—"

"Kathy, I did talk to him," Nielson said patiently. "He nearly had an aneurism. I just don't feel like it's safe for you right now."

"You think he'll hurt me," Kathy said flatly.

"There is a possibility," Nielson said. "Even Tabby admitted that."

"Tabby doesn't know him like I do," Kathy said. "Please, this is crazy!"

"I'm sorry, but my decision is final," Nielson said. "You're going to stay with Mary until I say otherwise. I've left you the room key; I'm going back to the hospital to get some work done."

"I'm not finished!" Kathy was deathly pale, and Nielson was glad there wasn't a _bokken_ in the room. "Don't you dare walk away from me!"

"I'll call you when we get to Hohenzollern," Nielson said. He closed the door behind him and heard something thump against it—probably Kathy's book. Shaking his head, he went back to the hospital doctor's lounge.

He worked steadily through the afternoon, making phone calls and doing the (blasted) paperwork pertaining to Kenny, Private Services, and Hohenzollern. He was only lucky the boy already had a passport, or matters might have been delayed weeks more. Finally he called Mary, asked her to keep an eye out for Kathy, and went back upstairs to pick up Kenny.

The psych ward was relatively quiet. Nielson headed up to Kenny's room, ignoring a tech walking a manic woman up and down the halls. He tapped on the door before letting himself in.

Kenny had changed from his hospital pajamas into a pair of jeans, a dark blue turtleneck, and a pair of worn off-white sneakers. Nielson noted clinically that the clothes were loose on his thin frame. He was sitting on the side of the bed, apparently on the receiving end of a lecture from his mother.

"It's going to be cold, up on that mountain," she said, fussing with his jacket, draped over her arm. "So make sure you don't catch a chill, alright? Wear warm things."

Kenny had an odd look on his face when he said, "Okay."

Mrs. Harris then noticed Nielson's arrival. "Are you ready to leave, Doctor?"

"Yes," Nielson said. "We need to leave in the next fifteen minutes in order to get to the airport on time."

Mrs. Harris nodded. "Well, Kenny's ready. I brought some clothes and books, a scarf and gloves…." Her voice choked off.

Nielson took the backpack from her. "Thank you. I'm sure it will come in handy."

Kenny's mother nodded. She pressed a hand to her mouth, briefly, and said, "Take care, honey. I'll write to you as often as I can, and I'll call. Listen to Dr. Nielson, okay?"

"Okay, Mom." Kenny took the jacket from her. "I'll be fine, don't worry about me."

Mrs. Harris's eyes filled with tears, and she pressed a hand to Kenny's soft red hair, unable to speak.

Nielson gestured to Kenny, and the boy followed him out, not looking back.

They got on the elevator and Nielson handed Kenny the backpack. "You're perfectly capable of carrying that," he said. Kenny took the bag without comment, but the look he gave Nielson was very pointed and very flat.

A cab was waiting from them at the front of the hospital. Nielson slid in after Kenny and pulled the door shut behind him. "Boston National Airport."

"What time is the flight?" Kenny asked, gazing down on his intertwined hands.

"Three thirty," Nielson said. "We'll be in Germany early tomorrow morning, their time."

Kenny didn't look up. "So who are you? Really?"

Nielson smirked. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

A spasm of intense dislike crossed Kenny's face and he immediately disengaged from the conversation, turning to stare out the window. He remained silent through the entire process at airport security.

Nielson had to conceal a grin. The dilemma between a teenager's pride and his insatiable curiosity amused him to no end.

They boarded the jet and Kenny came to a full stop at the doorway. Nielson asked, "What? Never seen a jet before?"

"You have your own jet?" Kenny's eyes were nearly bugging out of his head.

"I dislike people." Nielson said. He supposed the couch, the luxurious seats, and the dining table were a bit much to someone used to commercial flights.

It wasn't until after takeoff that Kenny's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked stiffly, "So what is Private Services, anyway? The nurses didn't have a clue."

Nielson's inner arrogance did a victory dance.

"I purchased and renovated an old castle in Germany," Nielson said. "The castle and the town beneath it are both Hohenzollern. I got it at auction for less than twelve million dollars and converted it. Quite a pretty penny, but it was worth it."

Kenny gave him a sideways look. "How much money do you _have_?"

The typically gauche question made Nielson smile inside. "A lot," he said. "I inherited a great deal of money from my father and made some very good investments."

"Hm." Kenny said. "So… what is Hohenzollern like?"

_And now we get to the heart of the matter_, Nielson thought. _Remember that he's a teenager going to a new place and he's scared. Be positive._

"It's very peaceful," Nielson said. "It's on top of a mountain and the view is everything it ought to be. You stand on the battlements and you feel like you can see for a hundred miles. Very few people, a lot of space; there are a dozen gardens and a stable and a library. You'll be very comfortable there."

"I guess," Kenny said. When he asked no further questions Nielson concluded the conversation finished. He got out his copy of Machiavelli and quietly immersed himself in the world of cutthroat politics.

The in-flight meal was served a few hours later. Nielson nudged Kenny with his elbow. "Eat it," he ordered. "I have a first-class chef and it's a lot better than the slop you've been eating at the hospital."

After picking at his lasagna in a desultory fashion, Kenny choked down a few bits under Nielson's wilting glare. Finally he pushed it away and said, "I'm not hungry."

Nielson shrugged amiably enough, but made another note in his mental file: Anorexic, probably due to depression. Must bribe/coerce/force feed at Hohenzollern.

Not long after the stewardess handed out pillows and blankets and helped the passengers turn their seats into quasi-beds. Nielson opened his bag and took out a bottle of pills.

"Have you ever taken Ambien?" Nielson asked, shaking a tablet into his palm.

Kenny eyed him. "No," he said warily, watching the tiny white circle in Nielson's palm as though it might jump up and bite him.

"Have you ever had an allergic reaction to a sleeping pill?" Nielson asked blithely.

"No," Kenny said. "I don't want—"

"It's a long, uncomfortable trip," Nielson said, not unkindly. "It'll be easier if you sleep. Now, do you want to take the pill or do I have to give you an injection?"

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Kenny took the pill and swallowed it dry. Nielson watched carefully but unobtrusively as for half an hour the boy fought the battle with sleep, eventually sliding under the blue-black influence of nepenthe.

It was the jostling that woke him. Kenny batted the irritating hands away and burrowed deeper into his pillows, trying to go back to sleep.

He heard a deep, masculine laugh, a grating noise that rubbed him wrong somewhere in the nethermost reaches of his unconscious. Beginning to be angry, he cracked his eyes open.

Nielson was bending over him, a supercilious smirk on his strong features. _Ugh… what an awful way to wake up…._ With a sick twisting in his stomach, Kenshin remembered where he was and what was happening.

_I've finally gone mad. I'm crazy, and they've sent me to an even bigger nutjob who know about Battousai and unless I figure something out I'm going to be locked up for the rest of my life._

_Fantastic._

Head spinning, mouth tasting cottony and metallic (he'd never handled drugs well) Kenny sat up slowly. "What time is it?"

"Six AM, locally." Nielson said. "C'mon, we're going to be late. Let's go."

Kenny stood slowly, one hand on the seat in front of him for balance. His hair had come loose of its usual high topknot, long strands falling into his eyes. Without access to a mirror he went ahead and put it into a low tail at the nape of his neck with shaking fingers.

The terminal was almost empty when they exited—a mother was wrestling with two small children a few seats away, and there was a small queue of zombie-like people near the door.

"The car is waiting out front," Nielson said. "I have someone getting our luggage so we can go on." He smirked. "I know how excited you are to see Hohenzollern."

Kenny ignored him.

The 'car' waiting for them was a sleek black limousine, as shiny as though freshly washed. A man in a suit stood beside the open back door, a slightly superior look on his face. Kenny took an immediate dislike to him.

"Good morning, Master Nielson." He said in a gravelly voice. "And this must be Master Kenneth."

"Yes," Nielson said. "George, call ahead to Private Services and make sure the room is ready. Have Daniel, Sam, Ashley, and Miranda there as well." He got into the car and Kenny followed, George closing the door behind them with a bow.

The limo had a plush interior, all leather and polished mahogany. Nielson opened a small refrigerator and pulled out a white bottle that tugged at Kenny's memory.

"Want anything to drink?" Nielson asked.

"No thank you," Kenny said. "I'm not thirsty."

"It's about an hour to Hohenzollern," Nielson said. "Feel free to get something if you change your mind later."

They sat in silence, then. Kenny watched the city through the window; George was a very good driver, not too fast nor slow on the narrow medieval-era streets. The parts of Berlin Kenny glimpsed under the rising sun were all very peaceful, quaint, and attractive. The people he saw going about their early-morning business seemed so picturesque.

_I wonder what it's like to be normal_, Kenny mused. _What would I be doing? Where would I be? Certainly not here._

Soon the cityscape changed to countryside, the shops and cobblestones to rolling pastures and farmhouses. Kenny could have sworn he saw a boy his own age herding sheep in the misty dawn.

A melancholia had come over him. Kenny sighed and rested his cheek against his hand. He wished he had a book, or a pencil and paper to distract him from his own dismal thoughts.

_I wonder if drawing while I'm here is a bad idea_, he thought. _Nielson already has my book… what does he plan to do with it?_

The doctor's voice broke the silence. "Look up. As we come up over the hill you'll be able to see your new home."

Kenny internally rebelled at the word 'home'—how long did Nielson think he was going to stay?—but looked up anyway. The sight before him made his breath catch.

Hohenzollern was a warm brown castle straight out of a fairytale, a many-turreted black-roofed palace atop a forested hill, the trees just beginning to leaf out in a misty bride's veil of green. Flecks in the granite caught the sparkle of the sunshine, and hundreds of windows flashed. It was a magnificent effect.

"Nice, isn't it?" Nielson said. "I think you'll enjoy it."

Kenny sat back, moment of rapture inexplicably spoiled. One didn't _enjoy_ places like this, like an ice cream cone; you breathed them, soaked up the clean, graceful energies. Places like this were not meant to gawked at—they were to be _drawn_.

He ignored the tacky comment and focused on committing the castle to memory for sketching later.

The drive to the castle was lined with towering oaks and Bradford pear trees, the latter in full, lacy white springtime bloom. Kenny watched the tiny white flowers wave in the breeze with something very like pleasure.

The tall wooden double doors were flanked by a pair of huge, ancient rose trellises. Kenny stared the portal with an inexplicable sense of foreboding, because he felt like it might eat him.

"Welcome to Hohenzollern," Nielson said softly.

Kenny gave him a sardonic look and got out of the limo without waiting for George to open the door. Nielson chuckled and followed.

George whisked the limo away to the garage as Kenny and Nielson went into the castle. Kenny stared; he couldn't help it. Whether Nielson had hired an interior decorator to put together the medieval theme of the hall or if he had simply restored it with a few tasteful changes, the effect was impressive. Kenny suspected the latter.

"This is the foyer," Nielson said, as comfortable as though walking in his own front door. Which, Kenny supposed, he was. A comment seemed expected, so Kenny said,

"It's very… big."

"Hm," Nielson said. "Let's take the grand tour then, shall we?"

Kenny followed wordlessly.

Room after exquisite, rich room followed, some with apparently no purpose save as a display for an expensive art treasure or piece of elegant furniture. All were empty of human life.

"This is the south wing," Nielson explained. "It's the public wing where we entertain guests, visit with family, give the occasional tour." He gestured to a pair of French doors. "That's the ballroom. Parties only." He gave it a look of loathing. "When we have to."

Kenny caught a glimpse of a polished marble floor, mirrors, and chandeliers before Nielson whisked him away.

"The study, where you'll be taking classes," Nielson opened a door, revealing a room with several huge, antique desks. Here at last was a touch of technology: each desk had a computer with a wafer thin monitor, printer/copier/fax, and official-looking telephone.

"Looks more like an office," Kenny said. Then, "Classes?"

"You don't think that just because you're not at home means you don't have to go to school, do you?" Nielson smirked.

"No," Kenny said sharply.

Nielson chuckled again. Kenny was beginning to hate that laugh; it made him feel stupid.

They went up three long flights of stairs to a long, brightly-lit hall with windows on either end. Nielson opened the last door on the right and said neutrally, "Your room."

Suddenly shy, Kenny went hesitantly into the room.

It was a large, airy space, more like an apartment than a bedroom. There was a parlor with a couch, television, and bookcases; a tiny kitchenette with a microwave and mini-fridge, a bedroom with more pillows than any ten people needed, a bathroom that was nicer than it had any right to be, walk-in closet, and a studio all in coordinating shades of blue, cream, and beige. Almost against his will, Kenny drifted over to the studio. The light was _perfect_; a double pair of French doors, all glass, led out onto a balcony where an easel leaned against a marble bench, and the walls were lined with art supplies. Compulsively Kenny's fingers reached out to stroke the creamy linen paper, smooth cool pens, and the roughly-textured tortillons.

"The balcony looks out over the gardens," Nielson said, still in that oddly neutral tone.

"It's very nice," Kenny said absently. He tested the thickness of a page between forefinger and thumb. _Oh, it's perfect for sketching_….

"There's a schedule on your bed," Nielson said, "but you can look at that later. For now it's high time you met the other residents."

"Okay…." Kenny was picturing a peach tree, the exact angles of the leaves curving over the fruit. That particular shade of pinkish-orange was ideal—

"Kenneth!" Nielson's voice cut through his reverie like a knife. "Pay attention."

The pencil dropped from between Kenny's nerveless fingers. "Sorry," he said dully. "What did you say?"

"It's time to go meet everyone else," Nielson repeated. "They're waiting in the den."

Kenny's stomach twisted in an unpleasant stab of apprehension, but he squashed it ruthlessly. There was nothing frightening about another group of teenagers, however unpleasant they might be.

Nielson expertly navigated the serpentine halls, and Kenny did his best to pay attention: _down three flights left turn past the courtyard third door on the right_. He had no desire to be following someone around like a puppy until his mental map was straight.

The den literally was a _den_, reached by box-like carpeted stairs and set a couple feet below the doorway. The scene within was a picture straight out of Kenny's nightmares.

A tall boy in an eggplant-colored turtleneck with pale blue eyes and short dark hair was sitting on the couch reading a slim volume of what was probably poetry. A short, elfin girl with purple stripes in her long skinny braid was perched on the arm of the couch beside him, her mouth going at a mile a minute. The boy completely ignored her. Off to the side, a ten or eleven year old kid was playing a video game; just to his right was Sam Adams, from Boston West High, leaning against the wall with a nonchalant expression.

Kenny knew these faces. _He knew these faces!_

And it terrified him.

"Hey everybody—listen up!" Nielson said. "This is Kenneth Harris. He'll be joining us, not sure for how long. Come introduce yourselves."

The blue-eyed boy was up first in a smooth, fluid motion that made the hairs on the back of Kenny's neck rise. "Ashley Saunders," he said, putting out a hand for Kenny to shake; he had a curious accent. Kenny took it, realizing how cold his fingers were only when they came in contact with the other boy's palm. He dropped it as soon as he could.

A perceptive look crossed Ashley's face, but he said nothing about it. "And this hyperactive force of nature is my girlfriend, Miranda Miller."

Miranda didn't bother shaking his hand. She threw her arms around his neck and squealed, "Hi, Kenny! We've been waiting for you!"

Kenny carefully extricated himself from her stranglehold, noting the way Nielson rolled his eyes. "Um… nice to meet you, Miranda."

"Thanks!" She beamed.

Sam slouched over behind her, hands in his pockets. "Hey." He said.

"What are you doing here?" Kenny asked blankly. "You're probably the least likely head case I've ever met."

Sam's face broke into a grin. "I met one of Dr. Henry's business partners at a conference in Chicago when I tried to go for a joyride in his car. He decided to take me with him, and quote, 'Make something of a rooster-brain.' So far he's failed." He glanced over at the kid playing video games and called, "Hey! Daniel! C'mere!" In a conspiratorial whisper he said, "Don't call him Danny if you value your balls."

Kenny wasn't sure whether he was kidding.

The kid put on a long-suffering look, paused his game, and said, "Hi. I'm Daniel Madani. I'm the youngest person in this sorry dump. Welcome to Purgatory."

With that he turned back to his game.

Sam sighed and said, "Sorry, he's pretty new. Only been here a month or so. He'll come around."

"I don't care," Kenny said, though really, he was a bit stung. "He's got a right to be left alone if he wants to."

"Well said," Ashley agreed.

They were so _strange_, familiar but not; like a famous statue blurred by an Impressionist's brush. They were a little different than his memories, of course; Miranda was dark enough to have some African blood and a fetish for sunshine, and Ashley was definitely more European than Asian, while Sam had some distinct, if faint, Mongoloid traces. The glimpse of Danny he'd gotten was… almost Arab?

"Hey," Sam seemed struck by a sudden bolt of inspiration. "Dr. Henry, can I show him the pool and the stables and stuff?"

"Sure," Nielson said. "Be back in time for lunch."

"Got it," Sam said. He practically dragged Kenny out the door, and as they left Kenny could hear bits of Nielson's voice coming around the corner:

"—off the goddamn idiot box! Only ten in the morning—"


	4. Mesh and Lace

Thanks again to the reviewers: SeaSaltChocolate, broomclosetkink, RoseCrystal, Emi Violet, Althea M, geckohawaii, StormieSkywalker, Leina, chizuru, Inuchron, donhisiewen, No one special, and t42n24t2.

Mostly world-building in this chapter. But the next is gonna be a doozy….

"I can walk, you know," Kenny snapped, pulling his arm free of Sam's clutches.

"Sure you can," Sam said easily. "Hey, do you ride?"

Kenny eyed the long, narrow building for which they appeared to be heading. "Horses? No."

"Heads up, Dr. Henry's gonna make you learn. He thinks horseback riding is next to godliness."

"Hm," Kenny said.

"So here are the stables and riding arena," Sam said. "Past those are the gardens and forest. The pool and tennis court are on the other side… the girls love tennis." He grimaced.

"Girls?" Kenny said. "I only saw Miranda…."

"Kathy's on vacation, and Mary's got her own place. She visits over the summer and stays to help Dr. Henry when he's got a tough case."

Kenny had a sudden, niggling suspicion. "Mary?" He asked. "As in Mary Thomas? She works with Dr. Nielson?"

Nonplused, Sam nodded.

"Figures," Kenny snorted. These people were a conspiracy just waiting to happen.

They resumed walking after a brief, awkward pause. Kenny spotted a patch of green and walked a little faster. "Is that the garden?"

"One of them," Sam said. "There's an herb garden, a vegetable garden, and a berry patch."

Kenny dropped to his knees beside the richly cultivated acre of straight, green rows, fingering the leaves of a spinach plant. He rubbed one finger against the black soil; it was rich and loamy.

"What kind of compost do you use?" Kenny asked. He hadn't had his own garden in more than two years, now.

"I have no idea," Sam said easily. "D'you like gardening?"

"Yes," Kenny said. _Grandma Harris taught me to garden. She had all the prettiest flowers. I bet it's all gone, now…._

"Good, maybe you can do something about the zucchini," Sam said. "We can't get it to stop growing. It's in salad, stir-fry, bread, blech."

Sam proceeded to show him the formal tea garden and the pool (an in-ground Olympic affair complete with slides. Sam explained that there was another, inside, for the winter months) before the older boy took him back to show him some of the more esoteric functions of his new apartment.

"There's whirlpool jets in the tub, and you can put whatever you want in the fridge except beer," Sam blathered. "The maids do a deep cleaning once a week, but other than that, Dr. Henry wants us to keep our own stuff picked up. They won't even come in my room anymore…."

Listening with half an ear, Kenny explored his new apartment a bit more thoroughly. The proportions were huge; one could tell the castle had been built originally for royalty. The bathroom was bigger than his old bedroom, and the closet was big enough to sleep in. Kenny did a double take when he saw his own clothes and shoes hung and stacked neatly on the shelves and hangers—not the things from his backpack, either, but the things his mother had shipped from home. A nasty chill went through him. _Someone went through my stuff!_

Angry now, he stalked out to confront Sam. "Who went through my luggage?" He demanded.

"Um… probably George…?" Sam stuttered.

Kenny's fury was nearing incandescent. "I would have preferred to unpack _myself_," he hissed.

"Sorry," Sam said, "It's kind of required. To, um, check for knives or drugs or anything."

"Oh?" Kenny realized his hand was hurting and loosened his fist. "Do I _look_ like a druggie to you?"

"C'mon, I didn't do it!" Sam was beginning to look a little nervous.

_Breathe,_ Kenny reminded himself. _Breathe. Throttling the rooster won't help_.

Sam glanced at the clock and let out an explosive sigh—of relief? "It's time to eat," he said. "Dr. Henry's gonna be ticked if we're late."

Kenny took a few more deep breaths. "Fine. I'll deal with this later."

Nodding like an idiot, Sam tried to lead him to the dining room, but Kenny pushed past him. He remembered where the dining room was from Nielson's tour.

The doctor and the residents of Hohenzollern were seated at a heavy oak table with formal china and silver place settings. Kenny took the place farthest from Nielson, next to Daniel. The boy gave him a filthy look, but Kenny was too upset to care.

"Now that we're all here," Nielson said, very specifically _not_ looking at Sam so pointedly that he might as well have been pointing and shouting. "We can eat."

As though his little speech had been a cue, a motherly-looking woman entered pushing a cart with six covered plates.

"Good afternoon, everyone!" She said cheerfully with just a hint of Irish brogue. She gave Nielson, Miranda, and Daniel plates, but stopped short at Kenny. "I knew we had somebody new, but it's good to put a name to a face. I'm Beth, Dr. Nielson's cook and registered nurse, and a sort of mum to these mum-less waifs. How are you?"

Kenny was actually a little befuddled by said mothering. "Um, fine…" he said.

"You're awfully skinny," she said in a friendly way. "I've got some good stuff here for you. D'you like Paninis?"

"I'm… um… not sure," Kenny stammered.

"I'm sure you'll love it!" She said brightly, putting one of the domed plates in front of him and removing the cover. Kenny wasn't about to tell her that the odor combination of grilled onion, steak, melted cheddar, apple compote, and strawberry milkshake were making him a little sick at his stomach.

"Looks very good," he managed through gritted teeth.

Beth beamed at him. "Of course, sweetheart. And you know you can come down and get a snack anytime."

_Snowball's chance in Hell,_ Kenny thought. "Yes ma'am," he said politely.

Still grinning, Beth stroked his hair in a quick caress. "Anytime, sweetie." She repeated, distributing the rest of the plates with quick efficiency. "Ashley, be sure you come to the kitchen before bed!" She called as she headed out the door.

"Alright," Ashley said. He began eating his food in quick, neat bites.

"So Kenny," Nielson said, "What do you think of our grounds?"

"You must have an army of gardeners," Kenny said. "I saw miles of paths."

"It's a good incentive to follow the rules," Nielson said. "Path-clearing and weeding build character after an infraction."

"What rules?" Kenny said.

"There's a set of them on your bed in a blue folder," Nielson said. "Sam should have shown it to you." Again, that pointed not-looking. "For example, one rule is cleaning your plate. Beth specifically calibrates your caloric needs and makes your plate accordingly. You should eat all of that."

Kenny looked at his plate in a kind of horror at the huge sandwich and milkshake.

"There's no way," Kenny said.

"Take your time," Nielson's grin was no grin; it was a baring of teeth.

"So when's Kathy gonna be back?" Daniel changed the subject at a blessedly opportune time.

"She sent me an e-mail today," Miranda said. "She plans to be back in a couple of weeks. She's spending some time Stateside with Mary. They're gonna go shopping and get pedicures and she promised to try those chocolate-covered coffee beans while she's there!"

"Crap." Daniel took a savage bite of an apple.

Kenny choked down a couple bites of sandwich, stomach roiling. It calmed down a bit after a sip of milkshake, and he concentrated on breathing through his nose.

They ate in silence for a while, the kind of nervous tension that comes when no one is sure quite what to say.

Ashley stood, folding his napkin neatly beside his water goblet. "Excuse me," he said. "My instructor will be here momentarily and I want to run through the arpeggio one more time."

"You're excused," Nielson said. "Good luck with Renault."

Ashley flashed an unexpected small smile. "I can handle him."

Nielson nodded. "Very good."

Ashley disappeared, and Miranda stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth. "Gon' go waftch!" She managed around the half-chewed mess, before darting out the door, braid flying.

Kenny watched her go with a bemused expression. "Is she always that happy?"

"Yes," Daniel said. "It's a pain in the ass."

"Strike one, Daniel." Nielson said in a warning tone, apparently out of the blue.

Daniel glared sullenly at his plate.

By some miracle, Kenny finished his food without redisplaying it for his new housemates. Breathing shallowly through his nose with his head down seemed to help.

"Are you feeling alright?" Nielson said.

"Fine," Kenny's teeth were gritted.

"Really? You look nauseous to me," Nielson said. "I think you should go lay down for a while."

"I'm _fine_," Kenny insisted.

Nielson gave him an overbearingly supercilious look. "Kenny," he said with condescending patience. "You will soon come to find that I know more about you than you know about yourself, and that I'm always right. _Always._"

"Nobody's right all the time," Kenny objected.

"Dr. Henry is," Sam said glumly.

"You're green," Nielson said.

"Like puke," Daniel added.

"_Thank you_." Kenny said.

"Go lay down," Nielson commanded. "I'll send Beth to check on you in a little while."

"Fine!" Kenny stood and threw his napkin onto his plate and stalked out of the dining room.

Nielson and Daniel exchanged a look. "Is _he_ gonna get three strikes?" The boy asked.

Nielson laughed. "Maybe," he said. "We'll have to see. Kenny's a pretty good guy under all the angst."

"Oh," Daniel said. Then he asked, "So you knew him… before?"

"Yes," Nielson said. "You did, too. You'll see."

"'Kay." Daniel said. "I'm gonna go see Thunder."

Nielson mentally congratulated himself on the acquisition of Thunder the blood bay for Daniel. Boy and horse had thrived on one another's company. "That's fine."

He excused Sam and Daniel and went to put in a few office hours. No rest for the wicked….

Kenny lay in bed, wallowing in a general sense irritation. Nielson had been right; after half an hour of laying on his side, breathing deeply of the fresh air from the pines through the open balcony doors, his nausea had gone away completely. And it _bugged_ him.

_I have no control over my life_, Kenny thought. _That pompous jerk_.

There came a soft tap on the door.

"C'min," Kenny called.

Beth slipped unobtrusively through the door. "Hey, honey. The doctor said you weren't feeling so good."

"Yeah," Kenny said. "But I'm feeling better now."

Beth closed the door behind her, and Kenny sat up. "Probably a bit of jet lag. Mind if I sit down?"

"Of course not," Kenny said, scooting over to make room. He genuinely liked Beth—she reminded him of someone.

_Don't even go there!_ "Um, not to sound rude or anything, but why are you here?"

Beth laughed, a deep, rich, matronly sound. "I wanted to go over your schedule with you and see if you have any questions. Also, I wanted to make sure you're comfortable here."

Kenny flushed. "Everything's very nice," he said haltingly. "But… um…"

"Yes?" Beth said encouragingly.

"It's a little overwhelming," he confessed.

"It can be overwhelming," Beth agreed. "What are some of the things making it that way, do you think?"

"I dunno," Kenny shifted uncomfortably. "Just Nielson, and Sam being here, and um, everything."

She smiled an understanding smile. "If you ever need somebody to talk to, I'm usually in the kitchen, okay?"

Kenny nodded.

Beth grinned at him, then reached over and took a folder from the nightstand. "This folder has your stuff in it: a map of Hohenzollern, a set of rules, your schedule, and some information about Private Services." She picked up a sheaf of paper, stapled at one corner. "Let's look at your schedule first—"

Kenny craned his head to look over her shoulder. The first page was labeled 'Monday' and had various times blocked off and labeled.

"You're up at six…" Beth mused, "Training starts at six-thirty."

"What training?" Kenny asked.

"Martial arts," Beth said. "It's a little unorthodox, but Dr. Henry's mother was Japanese and I guess it's very common over there. He's got them all learning different types of things. Swords, karate, and Miranda thinks she's a ninja, bless her heart."

Kenny tried to quell the butterflies in his stomach. _I can't hold a sword. I can't!_

"Then you get forty-five minutes to shower and dress," Beth continued. "Lunch is at noon. After lunch is therapy until two, and then classes until six. Dinner at six thirty, and then free time until bed at ten!" Beth gave him a cheerful smile. "Saturdays and Sundays are free to do whatever you want, even go to the village. We've had some good times at the theater there."

"Oh," Kenny said. "So we stay pretty busy, huh?"

"Yes," Beth said. "The doctor believes that keeping teenagers busy is the best way to keep them out of trouble—and incidentally, I agree with him."

"You're lucky that tomorrow's Monday," Beth said. "You'll get a nice, fresh start to the week after you rest today."

"Mm," Kenny said. "Beth? Ashley and Miranda and the others… Why are they here?"

Beth's face fell into an expression of genuine regret. "I can't tell you that," she said. "I'm sorry, but there are privacy laws, HIPAA, that sort of thing. I'm sure some of them will tell you, though, if you ask."

"It's okay," Kenny assured her.

"Alright." Beth smoothed a hand over his hair. "Why don't you finish looking over your paperwork? I have to go start dinner and take care of some things on the computer. Why don't you try to get a nap, later? You look like you could use it."

"I'll think about it," Kenny hedged._ Not a chance. I got more sleep last night than I usually get in a week._

"Have a good afternoon, sweetie." Beth said. The door closed softly behind her.

With nothing better to do, Kenny picked up the powder-blue sheet of paper marked 'Resident Rules' and scanned through it.

What he found left him sputtering.

_What the—these are the _weirdest _rules I've ever seen. Bedtime? Not a curfew, but a _bedtime_? And mandatory therapy? They can just try it. At least there's not a uniform._

A PA system came on with an audible click. _"Kenny to Dr. Nielson's office in ten minutes. Kenny to Dr. Nielson's office."_

Kenny swore out loud. Was Nielson really going to _summon_ him?

He turned on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him.


	5. And Worn It, Like A King

Thank you once again to the reviewers: kokoronagomu, t42nt24t2, Emi Violet, skenshingumi, chizuru, Inuchron, geckohawaii, donhisiewen, and OffCenterFold.

A couple of things I would like to address:

A few people have expressed confusion regarding the identities 'reincarnates'. I apologize for that; it was a failure on my part, as an author, as I had planned to make the associations obvious simply by force of personality. So, here is a list of characters and their current incarnations:

Ashley Saunders=Shinomori Aoshi; Henry Nielson=Hiko Seijuro; Miranda Miller=Makimachi Misao; Daniel Madani=Myojin Yahijo, Katherine 'Kathy' Samuels=Kamiya Kaoru, Mary Thomas=Takani Megumi; Kenneth 'Kenny' Harris=Himura Kenshin; Terebithia 'Beth' Smith=Sekihara Tae. If it helps, for the most part I tried to keep the letter at the beginnings of the names the same.

Normally I would address this in the review replies, but since the reviewer did not log in I would just like to say this: A reviewer was concerned in the last chapter because Kenny/Kenshin did not react to hearing Kathy's (Kaoru's) name. I simply wanted to point out that while Kenny has some very vague memories of Kaoru (more on that later) there is no reason he would associate a random name with hers, having never met her before. It's not a matter of whether he 'loves' Kaoru more, simply a matter of never having met her in a way that he is willing to acknowledge.

Hope I have addressed all inconsistencies to satisfaction. And now, on with the chapter!

* * *

Kenny stalked furiously down the hall. He remembered the way to Nielson's office (on the first floor down the hall from the formal receiving room) but he was so ticked off by the callous, brusque summons that he missed two turnings and had to backtrack, arriving at Nielson's office just this side of ten minutes. The door was only just cracked.

Reining his temper with difficulty, Kenny tapped on the door.

"Come in," the voice was a rumble, from a chest deep and broad.

Seething, Kenny opened the door.

The office was very, very quiet, and not particularly large. Paneled in dark wood, heavy carmine damask drapes shielded the occupants from the sunshine, and the desk was pushed up against the wall to make room for a round robin arrangement of squashy armchairs; it was dim and intimate.

Nielson himself was seated behind the desk, sealing an envelope with old-fashioned wax and a seal. "Ah, Kenny," he said. "Have a seat. I'll be with you in a moment."

Kenny remained stubbornly standing. "Why did you call me here?" He demanded.

Methodically finishing the seal, Nielson ignored him. Kenny caught a glimpse of it and his blood ran chill: In red wax was the exquisite image of a stylized dragon.

Shaken, he sat, noting in some disconnected part of his mind that the chair was very comfortable.

Nielson deliberately and neatly set the letter on a stack of others and rose, taking the chair across from Kenny. "So, how are you settling in?"

"What are you playing at?" Kenny asked, suspicious. He had a hunch that Nielson did nothing without a purpose. _Manipulative bas—_

"Nothing at all," Nielson said, interrupting his train of thought. "One generally begins a conversation by asking after the comfort of a guest."

"So we're having a conversation?" Kenny was caught a bit off-guard. He'd been half-expecting a 'how do you _feel_ about that?' kind of conversation. Nielson was, after all, a therapist, and Kenny knew what therapists were like.

"Yes," Nielson said. "I also plan to answer any of your questions, address any concerns you might have, but for now a conversation is a good place to start."

_I get it. He wants to pretend to be my friend—mentor, whatever—before I spill my guts. I'm not falling for it._

"Well?" Kenny asked.

Rolling his eyes, Nielson asked, "How do you like your apartment? Is everything comfortable?"

"Yeah," Kenny said. "It's fine."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Not yet."

"Is there anything you need?"

"No thanks."

"Are you going to answer in anything other than monosyllables?"

Kenny let silence be his answer to that.

Nielson huffed an aggravated sigh. "Nobody is your enemy here, you know."

Kenny smiled his most charming, irritating, sunny smile. "I don't believe you."

Leaning forward, dark eyes intense in spite of Kenny's flippancy, Nielson said, "Allow me to set something straight here, Kenny. I will absolutely never lie to you. I may refuse to answer a question, but I will _never_ lie to you. And I can promise you that everything I do will be in your best interests, whether or not it seems like it at the time."

Remaining mutinously silent, Kenny was determined not to fall for Nielson's games (though the doctor was disturbingly genuine in a very raw, brusque way). He _knew_ what would happen if he divulged the contents of his dreams, and some of the things he'd done because of them: He'd be locked away in a place far less nice than Hohenzollern, pumped full of mind-numbing drugs and left to rot for the rest of his life.

Nielson had apparently decided it was time to change tactics. "Did Beth talk to you about our martial arts training program? You're scheduled to begin working with a katana tomorrow morning."

_A sword? No!_

"Um, I… can't." Kenny said lamely.

"Can't what?" Nielson said.

"Use a sword," Kenny said. He tried to laugh it off. "I mean, my mom wouldn't even let me have a pocketknife. And I'm really clumsy," he lied. "I'd probably slice my own foot off or something."

"That's bull," Nielson said frankly. "You're a natural athlete if I've ever seen one—excellent sense of balance, perfect center of gravity. You'll be a natural."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Kenny said, beginning to feel a bit panicky now. _Blood on the snow pain and death—_

"I'm afraid the training is mandatory, unless you have a medical or religious reason for exemption," Nielson said, not sounding sorry at all. "Unless you have some other reason…?" He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Kenny to elaborate.

"I mean, there's not a problem," Kenny babbled. "Um, that is, I just—"

"_Is_ there a problem?" Nielson asked. "Did something happen that you'd like to talk about?"

_Ha! As if._

"Um, no!" Kenny gave a laugh that he knew wasn't going to convince anyone. "Sorry, I guess I'm just nervous."

Nielson gave him a long look, and it was a black study. "Kenny," he said finally. "I have been nothing but forthright with you. It would be… discourteous not to do the same for me."

Feeling like he had when he was a little kid and tracked mud onto his mom's fresh-washed kitchen floor, Kenny squirmed in his chair, but he really couldn't think of a reply to that.

"Well, sounds like we'll be able to start bright and early first thing tomorrow!" Nielson said. His voice would have been cheerful if there hadn't been a nasty little gleam in his eye. "I'm looking forward to it."

Kenny made vaguely agreeable noises.

"In the meantime, I want to discuss your schoolwork," Nielson said. "I have your high school transcripts—"

Kenny winced, thinking of a D he'd made in English last semester, and too many missed classes to do much better in Spanish; nothing that would particularly impress a PhD.

"—and I feel that they're probably not a very accurate indication of your academic potential. I'd like to have you take some placement tests for the next week or so in order to have you studying at the appropriate level. The only thing worse than giving you too-challenging material would be to have you functioning below capacity."

"Oh," he said, thinking back to his dad's tirades on his grades. "Um, okay. Sure."

"Math seems to be fine," Nielson continued, "But I'd like to look more into your social sciences. Paper writing, that sort of thing."

Kenny thought he could do that.

"Now for the rest of today you can go ahead and get settled, do some exploring. There should be time to shoot off an e-mail to your parents, as well." Nielson was smirking again. "And of course, if you decide you have any questions, my door is always open."

* * *

In spite of invitations from virtually all the residents of the castle to spend time with them in one way or another, Kenny found himself with his first bit of true solitude in days, exploring the battlements of the castle, the basements, and the miles of garden and forest. The silence in his own mind was a blessed reprieve, and a time to think things through.

_Nielson's not all that bad when he's not trying to be a jerk,_ Kenny thought, pushing aside a branch. He was in one of the more overgrown parts of the forest, more than a mile from the castle. _Something's weird, though. I mean, other than the fact that he knows about _him.

Then again, maybe that was it. Kenny had never before had to deal with anyone who knew about… _Battousai._

Even in his mind, the name was a whisper, fearful of being found out.

He had to admit that if one needed to build a psychiatric facility, Hohenzollern was the place to do it. The weather was mild, the grounds sylvan and fae. Kenny wouldn't have been surprised to come upon a trail of children's breadcrumbs, or Sleeping Beauty beneath her glass case. It was the sort of place where miracles might happen.

Just for the fun of it, Kenny began to run. He'd been on the track team at his last school, before Boston West, and he still missed the pure, kinetic pleasure of pushing his body as fast as it could go. Cross-country like this was an extra challenge; he could turn an ankle on an unseen stone, slip in leaf litter, fall in a hole. He didn't care. Here, alone in the woods, there were no dreams, no doctors, no parents, just the clean kiss of the wind in his hair and the stretch and burn of his legs pounding the turf, meditation in motion.

It was the first happy moment he could remember in a long time.

Sooner or later, however, all good things must end, and Kenny's watch said it was getting close to dinnertime. It was only his first day, and he didn't want to antagonize anyone more than he already had. Reluctantly, he turned his feet back toward Hohenzollern.

There would always be time to run later.

* * *

Beth took one look at her employer, stalking into her kitchen like an angry dragon, and headed straight to the liquor cabinet. She pulled the oldest bottle of double-distilled brandy she could find and two big tumblers.

"Thanks," he grunted, sitting at the scarred, bleached wooden kitchen table. Beth poured them each a glass.

"Did it go badly?" She asked sympathetically.

"Don't try to mother me, Beth!" He snapped, and took a long pull of his brandy. They sat quietly and drank; Nielson in long gulps with frequent refills, and Beth in tiny sips of her one glass.

Mellowed by the alcohol, Henry said grudgingly, "Sorry, Beth. It was a useless session. Kid's clammed up tighter than my dad's wallet."

"Worse than Ashley?" Beth asked.

"Much," Nielson said. "Ashley at least had some idea that his dreams were real, and we got to him so much earlier… Kenshin won't even believe he _was_ Kenshin. He's in massive denial."

"Why?" Beth said. "I thought it was kind of a relief, to know that it was real."

"At seventeen Kenshin was already a widower and fighting in the bloodiest revolution the world has ever seen," Nielson said pensively, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "He'd lost his family to disease, his friends to violence, his freedom to slavers… and to me. Then he lost his soul to the sword. Would _you_ want that to be real?"

"I guess not," Beth said. She stared down at her hands. "That poor boy… do I need to give him something to help him sleep?"

"I don't think so," Nielson said. "He's had a lot of junk in his system lately, and I'm trying to get it cleaned out. Besides, for some reason he associates drugs with coercion and force. I doubt he'll be very receptive."

"All right," Beth said. "I'll take him a cup of soup later if he doesn't want dinner."

"He won't want it," Nielson said. "You'll have to bully him." He knocked back the last swallow of brandy. "And Beth, make sure he knows how to use the extra heater. He catches cold easily."

Beth hid a smile as he walked away. Old softie!

* * *

Kenny woke to the bleeping of his alarm clock, and he flailed blindly until he slapped the button and shut the stupid thing up. The sun was just barely showing gray on the horizon, and birds were twittering outside the window. He stumbled to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, staring muzzily at the frowsty-headed, pale person in the mirror. _Ugh._

"Rise'n'shine, sleeping beauty!" A voice brayed, and Kenny nearly had a heart attack until he saw it was only Sam.

"Aw, you're already awake." He sounded a bit disappointed.

"What d'you want?" Kenny asked. It was way too early to be dealing with this, before being caffeinated.

"We've got training in, like, half an hour," Sam said. "You're gonna miss breakfast if you don't hurry! C'mon, I'm _starving!_"

"Then why are you _here_?" Kenny asked blearily.

"Dr. Henry said you might need some help with your clothes," Sam said, hands nonchalantly in his pockets.

"My—_clothes_?" Kenny's hands tightened unconsciously on his t-shirt.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Or do you already know how to tie _hakama_?"

"_Hakama_?" This was a frustratingly one-sided conversation.

"Uh-huh," Sam spoke slowly as though to a small, dim child. "We have practice this morning, and the doctor has us wear traditional stuff. You—" he pointed at Kenny's chest, "get to wear _hakama _and _hakama-shita_. Most people don't know how to tie them. I—" he made an exaggerated motion self-ward, "—am here to help."

Kenny shook his head. "I can figure it out."

"Okay," Sam said. "C'mon, your clothes are in the closet. Trust me, it's not worth being late."

Kenny went to the closet and opened the door. Immediately his eyes lighted upon a familiar package: flat, square, off-white linen, tied with a brown ribbon on all four sides.

Heart thumping in a way that had nothing to do with being startled by noisy rooster-heads, he untied the ribbon and opened the flaps. The contents of the package made his stomach lurch… a gray _hakama_ and royal blue _hakama-shita_, so breathtakingly familiar that he felt transported back in time.

"What is going on?" Kenny demanded, coming through the closet door with the heavy silk clutched in both hands.

"Nothing," Sam shifted, clearly guilty. "I mean, it's just clothes, right?"

Giving him a long, filthy look, Kenny shoved past him into the bathroom.

Sam let out a long, explosive sigh. "Geez!" He muttered under his breath. "No wonder they called him a demon. _Scary _eyes!"

Kenny stared at his reflection in the mirror with mounting horror. His face, so much younger than his years, was thrown into stark relief by the high ponytail; the single scar on his left cheek was prominently displayed. The traditional samurai garb, fitting loosely on his slight frame, was as familiar as a second skin. The only things missing to make the picture complete were a pair of armguards and the weight of a _daisho_ on his hip. No, horror did not even begin to cover it.

_I am mad._

There came a pounding on the door, and Sam's voice called, "Hey! You fall asleep in there?"

Kenny pulled the door open. "No."

"Okay!" Sam said brightly. "Let's go!"

They walked in silence to the breakfast nook, a deceptively named area furnished with multiple small tables and several divans. A long table along the wall was groaning under the weight of sweet bread, fruit, and various hot drinks and juices. Kenny went for the coffee with single-minded intensity.

Ashley and Miranda were already there, seated together at a table. Miranda had a plate piled high with three sticky cinnamon buns and the peeled segments of two oranges. Ashley, on the other hand, was nursing a single cup of green tea and a grudge.

"He's not a morning person," Sam said in a loud stage whisper, coming up behind Kenny and snagging a protein bar from a stack.

Ashley gave an inelegant snort. "Shut up."

Kenny ignored the byplay and took a seat on a divan; he was practically emanating 'back-off' vibes. Sam plunked down next to him, making Kenny bounce a bit.

"Aren't'cha gonna put any sugar in that?" he asked, indicating Kenny's cup.

"No," Kenny said shortly. "I like my coffee black."

Sam winced. "That's brutal."

Shrugging, Kenny took a sip of his coffee. It was very good, rich and dark with an undertone of bourbon vanilla. He ignored Sam to commune with the caffeine while Miranda talked at Ashley.

Daniel stumbled in a moment later, hair wild, clad in a yellow _gi_ and hunter-green _hakama_. Nielson sauntered in after him, ubiquitous cup of alcohol in hand.

"Isn't it a bit early for that?" Kenny snipped.

"There is no such thing as 'too early'," Nielson said, completely unruffled. "Is everyone ready? Or do you all intend to sit until you turn to stone?"

Kenny chugged the last of his coffee. "You don't have to be so rude, you know."

Sam snickered, and Miranda laughed out loud. Ashley commented dryly, "Yes, he does. It's his ineffective Freudian coping mechanism."

"Haha, you're all very funny," Nielson said. "Now everybody, out to the dojo!"

Kenny made to follow the others, but Nielson put a staying hand on his shoulder. "Uh-uh. You're with me."

"Um…" Kenny looked uncertainly at Ashley, who shrugged as he closed the door behind him. "I thought—"

"You assumed," Nielson cut in. "There's a difference. Now let's go."

Kenny stood and fumed for a moment. How did this guy always manage to get on his very last nerve in the space of minutes? Finally, with a sense of déjà vu, he jogged to catch up with Nielson.

* * *

Nielson led him away from the castle, to a large clearing far enough away that only the top spires of Hohenzollern were visible above the treetops. He stopped about halfway across the short-cropped grass and turned to face Kenny.

"First you're going to need to warm up and do some conditioning," Nielson said, "And that means running."

"Okay," Kenny said. Running, he could do.

"Of course, in a battle one would be running with a sword," Nielson said. "Catch!" A long, crescent shape came sailing through the air.

_But we're not in a battle, _Kenny thought. Reflexively, he caught what he thought was a polished wooden stick. He nearly dropped the much heavier weight of the long metal sword that smacked his palm.

"Wha…?" Kenny knew the look on his face was blank and clueless.

"Your katana," Nielson said. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, _Is there a question?_

"How should I…?"

"Put it in your _obi_," Nielson directed. "No, under the first winding, you made need to draw it in a hurry… fine. Now, I don't want to hear any whining or complaining, and no slacking, understand?"

"You won't hear any problems from me," Kenny said, thinking, _we'll just see if you can keep up, old man_.

Famous last words.

Nielson set a punishing pace right from the start, long legs eating up the ground in strides that covered five feet if they covered an inch. This was no gentle jog through the meadow, either; the doctor clearly knew the terrain and was taking them through the roughest, boggiest parts of the forest land. Kenny was jumping logs, skidding around trees, dodging sinkholes; soon he gave up trying to pull ahead and just kept his eyes on Nielson's heels, doing his best to keep up.

Before long he was sweating, clothes sticking in a nasty-making way to his back and legs. Nielson didn't even seem fazed.

Kenny had no idea how long they ran, only that by the time they were finished the barely-risen sun was three quarters of the way to its zenith. When Nielson finally stopped, Kenny bent over, both hands on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath and ease the stitch in his side. It took every ounce of his stubborn pride to avoid dropping flat out to the ground and never moving again.

"Take five and get some water," Nielson said. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on his hairline, but he wasn't even winded. _Jerk!_ "Then we'll start on kata."

Kenny stared up at the older man—_surely _he was joking!—but the dark eyes were entirely serious. He bit his tongue when he remembered his rash promise, _You won't hear any problems from me_! and only huffed, "Wh-where's the water?"

"In the bag," Nielson said, pointing out a duffel bag under one of the trees.

Spine stiff and knees wobbling with exhaustion, Kenny grabbed a bottle and lowered himself to the clipped grass, draining half of it in one go. _Slow… don't wanna puke…._

At exactly five minutes, Nielson called him over. Kenny could have used at least another half hour, but he capped the last inch of water left in his bottle and got to his feet.

"Keep that sword sheathed for now and watch," Nielson said. "And pay attention!

"This is the first kata of Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_."

Sword up, a slash to the left; twist, upstroke; it was an ideally crafted ballet of deadly purpose that tugged something in Kenny, a memory suppressed at the edge of consciousness. Turns and thrusts, the _katana_ rising and falling….

Nielson sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. "Your turn."

"I can't do it!" Kenny protested, though he thought maybe…. "You only showed me once—"

"Once is all you need," Nielson said enigmatically. "Do it!"

Biting his lip, Kenny drew the sword, leaving the sheath in his belt. It was only two or three pounds, but felt much heavier to his trembling arm. Tentatively, he brought the sword up and mimicked Nielson's flat leftward strike.

"Don't pull it," Nielson said. "Put everything you've got into every strike, or you'll never accomplish anything. Again!"

Kenny struck harder this time, and brought his sword up diagonally—_reverse _kesagiri_—_and down again, an imaginary opponent felled. The sword was a bit lighter this time, as he thrust it forward at waist height—_tsuki_—then turned to dispatch the imaginary attacker behind with a clean sweep of head from shoulders.

"Again," Nielson said. "Faster!"

It was like flying. The _katana _did whatever Kenny asked of it, whirling easily as a feather in his hands; and he himself was lighter than air, dancing over the grass, pure kinesthetic power—

"Faster!"

-and nothing could touch him, strong and fierce as a dragon, a perfect union of soul and skill—

And it was finished.

"Not bad for a first try," Nielson said as Kenny sheathed the _katana_ in one fluid motion, _tsuba_ sliding home against the _saya_. "Go get cleaned up and eat your lunch—we'll continue this tomorrow."

When the sword clicked into its sheath, all Kenny's weariness came rushing back, forgotten for a moment in the thrill of adrenaline. He felt oddly bereft.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, aware that there had been sarcastic recrimination behind Nielson comment—_first try, indeed!_—"For the lesson, I mean."

Nielson waved him off. "Go on. You smell."

Not for the first time, Kenny had the urge to smack Nielson over the head with something hard; the blunt side of his _katana_ should do the trick. _Why_ did the man enjoy getting under his skin _so much?_

He settled for walking away with his dignity intact, ignoring the comment.

Kenny never saw the smile that spread over Nielson's features as he left the clearing. It was sharp, and pleased.

Predatory.


	6. A Shiver Down Your Spine

Sorry for the lack of update, but real life is Eating My Brain. I mean, seriously, who really wants to read a six-page paper about the use of robotic laparoscopic surgery? Not my idea of a good time, so why make me write it...?

Anyway, a big thank you to the reviewers, who are: RoseCrystal, brookclosetkink, kokoronagomu, chizuru, skenshingumi, meri47, Emi Violet, t42n24t2, Inuchron, geckohawaii, Leina, and OffCenterFold.

Also, I have no intention of alienating anyone with this request, but please log in or leave an e-mail address if you are going to ask me questions. I am trying to comply with FFN's guideline to keep author notes short. I still very much appreciate your reviews and would love to reply to your questions, just not in the body of the story itself!

* * *

Kenny spent the next week either sweating, swearing, or sleeping. Nielson worked him half to death in the name of 'training'—Kenny was beginning to suspect torture—then put him through hours of aptitude tests each afternoon. He had yet to have a proper 'therapy' session; most of the rest of his time he spent practicing (secretly) with the _katana_, or studying to do better on his aptitude tests. Nielson had taken one look at his history score and snorted out a laugh, and insisted he take it again, and pay attention this time.

In his rare moments of truly free time, Sam had become like a second shadow. He frequently showed up in Kenny's apartment with popcorn or nachos and an action flick. Turned out that behind one of the panels in Kenny's sitting room was a big-screen TV.

But now it was Saturday, the blessed end to an endless week. Kenny slept six uninterrupted hours; the only good thing he could see about Nielson's training was that it took the edge off the nightmares. Not that Kenny would _ever_ tell him that!

Maybe that was why Saturday night's terrors were so much worse.

* * *

Nielson knew Kenny was finally asleep. He could sense the subdued _ki_ from half a mile away. He had sent a copy of Kenny's aptitude test scores to his parents, and the results should please them. Kenny was an intelligent young man, but like so many others, high school was a terrible environment for him. He was thriving in Nielson's challenging, bully-free schoolroom.

_And America wonders why her children's international test scores are slipping_….

He'd typed a long e-mail to Elen Harris, letting her know that her son was coping well and seemed to be settling in. Which he was, and quite nicely. But no one that frightened and angry could just slough it off, though Kenny seemed to be doing his damndest to try. Something was going to break, and soon; Nielson could feel it.

Bills paid, letter to the solicitor, scan report from Engelhard's High Security School for Boys, review Beth's requests for a budget increase to the kitchen (apparently three teenage boys were expensive to feed), send an e-mail to Jacob and tell him to check in before he got fired (as if!). The busywork ate up the hours, and Nielson leaned back, rubbing at the beginnings of a tension headache. The clock above the door said it was nearly one AM.

A drink, and then bed was what was called for.

Nielson went down to the kitchen and warmed up a cup of _sake_, sipping his favorite drink reflectively as he made his leisurely way toward his bedroom. _Maybe now's the time to tell him about Tabitha_—

A shriek tore him from his musings, and Nielson sighed as he set his cup down. One of the kids was having a nightmare… he checked the flow of _ki_. _Of course it's Kenny_.

He opened the door to Kenny's apartment without knocking. He scanned the sitting room for anything out of place: an open sketch pad left lying on the arm of the couch, a half-full mug of cold tea on the coffee table, and through the bedroom door, a teenage boy tossing in his bed.

Careless, Nielson turned on the light. The boy was whimpering as he thrashed, and no matter how Nielson tried to harden his heart, the sound cut at him.

"Kenny," he said gruffly, shaking the thin, clammy shoulder. "Kenny—Kenshin!"

The eyes came open, and Kenny sat up with a gasp. He stared ahead blankly, consumed by whatever mental visions still plagued him.

"Kenshin," Nielson's voice was gentler now. "You're awake, and in your own room. Whatever you're seeing isn't happening right now."

Kenny made himself small against the head of the bed. "Shishou?" His voice was small, and scared.

Nielson felt a small surge of triumph in his chest. _Gotcha!_ "Kenshin," he said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

The redhead opened his mouth, eyes searching Nielson's face, then he _flinched_. "That's not my name," he whispered.

"Kensh—"

"THAT'S NOT MY NAME!" Kenny nearly fell off the bed, scooting to put the safety of mattress and wooden frame between himself and Nielson. "I'm not _him_—I wouldn't do that! I won't!"

"Kenny," Nielson kept his voice low, non-threatening. "I don't even know what it is you're supposed to have done. Tell me what you dreamed."

Kenny's entire body went rigid. "Get out. I won't talk to you."

Nielson's jaw set. _That boy always did have a way of getting under my skin_. "Nobody's going to force you to do anything," he said. "But I'm not leaving."

"Why not?" Kenny demanded. "I don't want you here, I won't talk to you, so why can't you just _leave me alone_?"

"Your hands are shaking," Nielson noted. "Are you that frightened?"

Biting his lip, Kenny looked down and said nothing, which as they both knew, was an admission in and of itself.

"Hm," Nielson said. "Well, since your screaming interrupted my drink, I'll just have to have another. Care to join me?"

"I'm underage," Kenny said shortly.

"The alcohol age limit in Germany is sixteen," Nielson pointed out. "You qualify. C'mon. Or are you going back to bed?"

Kenny threw a brief, but unmissable expression of loathing at the rumpled bedclothes. "No," he said.

"I'll be back," Nielson said. "Wait for me in your sitting room."

Without looking back, Nielson went down the hall to his office and opened the refrigerator. He chose a bottle of sparkling pineapple wine and two flutes before heading back to Kenny's apartment.

His student was curled up in a defensive position in the corner of an armchair, arms wrapped around his knees. Nielson noted with some curiosity that Kenny had taken the time to put on a tatty, overlarge red bathrobe.

"This'll put you to sleep in no time," Nielson said, uncorking the bottle and pouring two flutes. He glanced assessingly at Kenny and thought, _low bodyweight, even lower bodyfat ratio, low alcohol tolerance… better be on the safe side._ And he added another splash to Kenny's glass.

The boy took the glass from him. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"No," Nielson said. He took sip of his drink and Kenny eyed him a moment before doing the same.

Kenny's expression was comical. "It's good," he said, eyeing the pale yellow liquid dubiously.

"You're surprised?" Nielson smirked. He'd picked a light, sweet, sparkling vintage on purpose; it was enough like soda to fool Kenny into drinking more than he should.

"Yeah," Kenny said, taking another, bigger sip. "My mom always told me wine was gross."

"I see," Nielson said. "And your father?"

"He was an alcoholic when he was younger," Kenny said, toying with his glass. "So he won't touch it with a ten foot pole."

"A recovered alcoholic and a temperance woman," Nielson shook his head mournfully. "We'll just have to bridge that gap in your education, won't we?"

"I guess," Kenny said. He took a long pull of the wine, and Nielson obligingly refilled the near-empty flute. "What is this, anyway?"

"Sparkling Maui Blanc, from Tedeschi Vineyards." Nielson said. "In Hawaii. Ever been there?"

"No," Kenny said, and his head-shake wasn't quite coordinated. One and a half glasses; Nielson sighed mentally. What a lightweight.

"So where have you been?" Nielson asked, setting his own flute down. He very much preferred port, brandy, or sake—and something closer to the hundred dollar range than the ten.

"Camping in Canada," Kenny mused, taking another long drink. Nielson obligingly refilled it. "Skiing in Utah, business trips in New York City." There was a catch in his voice on the last two words, and if Nielson hadn't been looking for it, he would have missed it entirely. "That's about it."

"Did something happen in New York?" Nielson asked.

Kenny shrugged. "Stupid crap. It was m'fault…"

"How do you figure?" Nielson asked. This was downright interesting.

"Dad told me to stay in the hotel room," Kenny said, looking at his hands. "But I was bored, and I was mad 'cause I hadn't been allowed to go anywhere except the pool. So I went for a walk." He shook his head. "Walking around at night, alone, in New York City? I should have just painted a target on my back, 'Idiot here'!" A disgusted snort. "There was this gang-banger. He tried to—well, doesn't matter. Point is, I hurt him. Bad. His buddies came and got him, but… I dunno if he lived."

"You never told anyone?" Nielson asked, though of course he knew Kenny had kept it to himself. Mrs. Harris, at least, would have mentioned it.

Another head-shake. "I just told Dad I went for a walk. He was mad enough about that so he didn't think to ask why there was blood on my shoe."

_Sneaky little bugger_. "Sounds like the guy got what was coming to him," Nielson said. "If he was trying to do something to you."

"But he hadn't really _done_ anything yet." There was genuine anguish in Kenny's eyes. "I just… I knew…" he laughed, and there was no humor in the sound. "I sound crazy, huh?"

"_Ki_ sense," Nielson said. "There's nothing wrong with stopping something evil from happening; you sensed intent to do harm and put a preemptive stop to it." He gave Kenny a level look. "And I somehow doubt that there was a _complete_ absence of provocation."

Kenny flushed, and Nielson knew he was right.

"Want to give me some more details? I may be able to find out what happened to this guy, if it's bothering you so much." However, if what Nielson suspected was true, he himself would have felt no guilt over the matter whatsoever; he'd have administered a thorough beating and made _sure _an attempted rapist never was capable of performing such a despicable act again, and been quite pleased with himself.

"I kicked him in the temple with a steel-toed boot," Kenny said bitterly. "You should probably look through the morgue reports."

Then he seemed to realize he'd said too much, and bit his lip, effectively bottling any further confessions.

Nielson refrained from passing any judgments. What was done was done, and hashing it wouldn't help anything. "I'll look into it for you," he promised, making a mental note to put one of the private detectives on his payroll on the case ASAP.

Kenny wouldn't meet his eyes. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost two AM," Nielson told him. He wasn't going to press Kenny to talk further tonight—he was pleased with the progress he'd made and had grand plans for training tomorrow morning.

"I'm going back to bed," Kenny said, still staring at his bare feet, as though they contained the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

"That would probably be for the best," Nielson agreed. He stood, gathering glasses and bottle. Inside, he was gleeful. _At least we've gotten started. Even if he would rather live alongside his demons than face them…_ "I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

Kenny woke nauseous. That in and of itself was not uncommon; the novelty was the pounding headache and foul taste in his mouth that accompanied it.

_I'm not in my bed. Why am I not in my bed?_

A bit vertiginous, he sat up. Apparently he'd fallen asleep on the couch…

_Oh _crap_. I told Nielson…_

He was honestly surprised there wasn't a cop here to arrest him already.

_Maybe he's going to let me have a shower first,_ Kenny thought sardonically. _Or a last meal? Do they still do that?_

This was going nowhere. Kenny realized he needed to get out of the castle for a while—maybe a few days, or even a few weeks. _Pack some clothes, some cash, tell Beth I want a snack—she'll pack enough food for a week. Then wait and see what happens_.

If Nielson wanted to send him to jail, he'd have to fight for it.

Someone was pounding on the door.

Kenny gauged the distance to the balcony, decided his head would probably explode if he tried to jump more than an inch, and went to answer the door. It could be anybody, after all.

It was Nielson. Murphy's Law.

"Get your practice clothes on," the doctor barked without preamble, and Kenny's heart sank. He braced himself for handcuffs, recriminations—

"We're sparring," Nielson said. "Bring your _katana_."

—What?

Kenny made an intelligent noise. "Guh?"

"Get moving!" Nielson barked. "We don't have all day!"

Fifteen minutes later, after a hasty face wash and a lick and a promise for the toothbrush, Kenny followed Nielson to the usual practice clearing. The cheerful morning sunlight was sending spears of agony through his brain, and he squinted against it.

"So, is there some kind of drill…?" Kenny asked, straightening his thrown-on clothes. He knew if he tried to fight Nielson on his own terms he was going to be slaughtered.

"No drills. You just do your best to survive," Nielson said, and then he was _gone_, and there was a silver blade sweeping toward Kenny's head.

Kenny yelled and ducked aside, the blade whistling harmlessly past his fluttering hair. "What are you _doing?_"

But Nielson didn't answer; his face was a thundercloud, an intensity of lowering fury that was far more frightening than any threat could be. He aimed a sideways cut at Kenny's middle, and Kenny brought the sheathed sword up to parry.

"Are you crazy?" Kenny yelled. _That's why murder's no big deal, he does it all the time, and oh my God he's going to kill me!_

Nielson made another pass at Kenny's knees, features imperturbable. Kenny realized that the older man wasn't going to stop, that this was _serious_—

He jumped over the strike aimed at his legs and took a staggering step forward, thrown off balance. Immediately he knew it was a mistake; a line of fire traced over his shoulder blade, just barely missing being deeper.

_He's trying to kill me!_

The thought came with an unusual vitreous clarity as Nielson nicked another mark on his thigh, missing his liver only by virtue of a particularly athletic retreat.

_I don't want to die!_

Time seemed to slow. Kenny could see the next strike coming, aiming for the vulnerable juncture of his neck and shoulder. The hand guiding it did not tremble; the eyes watching it no more alive than a serpent's.

Kenny's left hand gripped the sheath of his own sword, while his right took hold of the grip, sharkskin leather as familiar as a lover's caress, silk tassels brushing the backs of his palms.

_Draw the sword against the inside edge of the sheath, increasing its speed and power…_

"Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_, _battojutsu_!"

Desperate and terrified, Kenny was fast, but Nielson was faster, and before the strike connected he was on the other side of the clearing, sword sheathed at his lower back.

Kenny crouched in the position of release, breathing in harsh gasps. "What—the—hell?" His heart thumped painfully in his chest, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his wrists and temples.

Nielson, however, was grinning broadly. "I was almost sure you remembered, but that surpassed my expectations."

"What are you talking about?"Kenny said. "You just tried to kill me!"

Almost casually, Nielson darted forward and hauled Kenny up by the collar of his _hakama-shita_, and Kenny could feel the icy kiss of steel under his chin. "Believe me, Kenny, if I wanted you dead it would be easy."

Looking at that impassive face, Kenny believed him.

A moment later he had firm earth back under his feet. "But," Nielson continued, "I am not interested in killing you. I'm interested in training you—or more specifically, _re_-training you."

"Why?" Kenny said. "What's going on?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," Nielson said. "C'mon, let's get those cuts cleaned up. You won't need stitches."

Nielson pulled a first aid kit from the usual duffel and knelt in the grass. "I won't bite," he said with a smirk.

Huffing, realizing that Nielson had manipulated him as thoroughly as an expert violinist plays a Stradivarius, Kenny plopped down on the grass, pulling his _hakama _up over his knee to expose the cut, still shallowly oozing blood. "You could have chopped my leg off, you know."

"I'm a genius," Nielson said. "Those cuts are exactly as deep as I wanted them to be."

Kenny remained silent while the doctor irrigated the cut with peroxide and applied steri-strips. When Nielson began work on his shoulder, Kenny said, "Okay, spill."

Nielson chuckled. "Fine. Hohenzollern isn't really a psychiatric rehab facility," he said.

_Oh, I knew it, I just knew it, he's insane_—

"This is a school," Nielson said. "For a very special, very select group of people. You're one of them."

"And what makes me so special?" Kenny asked suspiciously.

"Some people," Nielson said, "Have an extremely unique marriage of certain attributes: personality, physicality, emotions and mentalities. Are you familiar with the concept of reincarnation?" he asked abruptly.

Kenny nodded. "Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everyone in this school is the reincarnation of a past person," Nielson said. "There are a great many reincarnations, of course, but only a few with particular qualities are able to remember their past lives. I am one of them," he fixed Kenny with a fierce look, "And so are you."

"No way," Kenny said, shaking his head. "That's crazy. I don't—"

"How else do you explain using an attack from a school that's been dead over a hundred years?" Nielson said. "How do you explain the fact that you speak fluent Japanese? Why did you call me Shishou last night?"

Kenny stared at him, thoroughly spooked.

"I," Nielson said. "Am Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, and you are Himura Kenshin, the Hitokiri Battousai. You can't run forever."

"Why—" Kenny cleared his throat. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because time is running out," Nielson—no, _Hiko_—said. "There's someone you need to see."


	7. Broken Hallelujah

And so we get to the heart of the angst. Here it goes, people, the beginning of... well, it's more the middle than the end, but it's still gonna be one heck of a ride.

Thank you to all those who have left feedback on this story: kokoronagomu, Emi Violet, Leina, donhisiewen, chizuru, t42n24t2, Inuchron, geckohawaii, broomclosetkink, skenshingumi, thebestIcan, and OffCenterFold.

Also, because I haven't done it in a while: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin. Or the awseome song _Hallelujah_, as performed by Kate Voegele. That song, along with The Band Perry's _If I Die Young_ can be considered background music for the next few chapters. And if those tidbits are spoilerish for you, clearly my foreshadowing skills need work.

Please, enjoy!

* * *

Hiko led him into the house, pausing long enough to grab both of them cups of coffee. His face was very grim, and Kenny had an awful sense of foreboding. What was going on?

They went to a wing of the castle Kenny hadn't been in before, a quiet and empty set of rooms. They paused before a pair of tall, closed mahogany doors.

"Now she's fragile," Nielson said. "I'm not going to sugar coat it for you. She's very sick—dying. She doesn't have long left, so you're not to upset her or disturb her. If she's asleep we're going to turn around and walk right back out. Do you understand?"

"Who?" Kenny asked, his gut twisting into knots. "Who is she?"

Hiko's features softened fractionally, into something that might have been compassion, and he said, "Tabitha. Tomoe."

Kenny felt frozen, rooted to the fleur-de-lis carpet. His breath was coming faster, and the hallway seemed to be spinning.

_Tomoe?_

A thousand images and memories assaulted him: a blood-stained umbrella, the line of a woman's wrist with the sleeve of her _kimono_ drawn back, a diary in fine handwriting, the scent of _hakubaiko_, a breathy moan in the dark….

His nails bit into the skin of his palms as he tried to ground himself. _Time running out… dying_…

Dying? His Tomoe?

_No! Not again!_

Taking a few deep breaths that didn't seem to get him enough air, Kenny said, "How? What happened?"

"About a year ago I diagnosed her with terminal liver cancer," Hiko said. "It probably metastasized from her gallbladder. It's nearly impossible to find before the disease is incurable. At that time I gave her ten months."

"No," Kenny breathed.

"I'm afraid so," Hiko said. His voice was not unkind. "It happens sometimes when people are very ill. They hang on until the person they're waiting for can let them go."

Horrified, Kenny stared at him, throat too thick to speak.

"Do you want to see her?" Hiko asked like there was some kind of question.

_Does the earth want to see the sky?_

Kenny put his hand on the door latch and pushed it down.

The scene on the other side was heart wrenching. The room was full of diagnostic equipment, like an all-too-familiar hospital cubicle, but it was open, bright and airy. A large bed with a lilac patchwork quilt took up most of the area across from the door, under a tall east-facing window. Occupying the bed was a young woman, quietly reading a book.

She was paler, to be sure, and much too thin, and her hair was very short, framing a face with deep-sunken, bruised eyes; but she was _there_, gloriously alive with that same sweet, faint, melancholy smile on her mouth. It was Tomoe.

_Tomoe_. He mouthed her name, unable to speak it, unable to believe she was _alive_.

Somehow, though, she heard it. Her face lifted from the book (a thick, well-worn volume of leather) and her eyes lit on him.

He was pretty sure his heart stopped.

Her lips curved into a true smile, and the book dropped from her hands into her lap. Her arms lifted in a gesture of welcome, limp and shaking, but potent just the same, and her eyes lit up.

"Kenshin!"

And he buried his face in her breast, in her hug, and didn't care who or what he was, only that she was here and safe in his arms. "Kenshin, darling, I'm so glad…" she stroked his hair, then looked over his head. "Uncle Seijuro… _thank you_."

Hiko nodded. "I'll leave you two alone for a while." The door shut behind him with a _click_.

"I'm so glad you're here." Tomoe said.

"I wish I'd have come sooner," Kenshin said. "I could have been here—"

Tomoe shook her head, silky black bob swinging. "I told Uncle Seijuro not to tell you, and he agreed. You were in so much pain already… you didn't need my problems too."

He drew back, eyes blurring as he grasped her hand. The skin was so, so thin, like parchment paper, and as easy to tear. "But there's so much I want to tell you," he said desperately. "I _need_ you."

Her hand came up to stroke his hair again, and the gesture was achingly familiar. "I have a little time left, love. It'll be alright. Shhh, darling, don't cry."

"Okay," he took a deep breath and swiped at his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I mean, I don't want—"

"I know," she said. "There is so much to say, I hardly know where to begin…"

"Start with yourself," Kenshin said. "Shishou… Shishou said you were sick?"

"Yes," Tomoe said. "I was diagnosed eleven and a half months ago. The cancer has moved to my stomach, my brain, and my lungs. But I'm not in any pain!" She assured him, seeing his horrified expression. "Uncle Seijuro makes sure of that."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Kenshin asked. "Chemo, radiation, something?"

"It's spread too far," Tomoe said, angelically calm. That unbearable calm was beginning to make Kenshin feel a little frantic. "I have… a week, maybe a few days. Any drugs strong enough to kill the cancerous cells would kill all my other cells too."

"Oh," Kenshin said.

"Let's talk about something else," Tomoe said. "I'm tired, and there are things you need to understand."

Kenshin nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain.

"Oh, dear one…" she sighed. "Uncle Seijuro told me you were having problems adjusting." Her fingers traced over his cheekbones, light as a butterfly's wing. "You're so thin. You look almost as hollow as you did when you worked for Katsura."

Mutely, Kenshin nodded.

"Those dreams you're having do not mean you're insane," Tomoe said. "They're memories of the lives we've lived before. We all have them: me, Aoshi, Misao, Sano, Megumi, Yahiko, Uncle Seijuro… but most of us know that they are real. We had help with the hard times, and friends to support us. You didn't have any that. And of course, when you're dreaming, it doesn't seem like a dream at all."

"Does it ever stop?" Kenshin asked.

"According to Uncle Seijuro, most of us will have the majority of our former memories by the time we are twenty-one," Tomoe said. "Of course, some memories are closer than others. We think it has something to do with age. You're what, sixteen now? That means Ikedaya, Otsu, the Yaminobu, and your time as a free swordsman, right?"

Again, Kenshin nodded.

Tomoe coughed. "I'm sorry, could you get me a cup of water?"

Kenshin spotted a pitcher on the bedside cabinet and poured her a cup of something pale pink. Hands trembling, Tomoe took the plastic between both hands and took a few tiny sips. "Thank you," she said, setting the cup aside. Again Kenshin was struck by the appearance of her hands, how emaciated and bruised and elegant they were.

A warm smile lit her face. "I've missed you, you know."

Her head bobbed, and Kenshin realized she could hardly keep her eyes open. "You can go to sleep now, if you need to," he said. "I don't mind."

"Come closer," she said softly. "I haven't waited eight years for you to be stuck in a chair! Sit with me."

"But Shishou—"

"He won't tell me no on something as little as this," Tomoe said.

Oh so carefully, as tenderly as he could to avoid hurting her, Kenshin settled himself into the bed behind her, letting her sit between his legs. Kenshin wrapped his arms around her, noting with concern the clammy chill of her skin against his. Tomoe sighed and rested her head against his chest.

In the later days of their marriage, after the first bloom of lonely love had ripened into deeper trust, they had often sat like this, usually on cool autumn evenings as a pre- or postlude to lovemaking. They had shared warmth and companionship, and now it brought to Kenshin an indescribable sense of comfort. Gently, he pulled the quilt up over her skeletal shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice almost gone. "You should try to rest with me. When we wake, we'll talk."

"Whatever you want," Kenshin said. He leaned down almost unconsciously to breathe the scent of her hair—it was still _hakubaiko_.

Kenshin slept better than he had in years, and dreamed fleetingly of a happier time, in a little house in Otsu.

* * *

"They've been talking for _hours_," Sano complained, "And why're we stuck with waiter duty?"

Aoshi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sano," he said shortly, "If your beloved had only days to live, would you waste time eating?"

"Well," Sano shifted guiltily, "Guess not."

"And neither of them should be going without meals," Aoshi said. "Himura especially."

"Yeah, I know." Sano said. He lowered his voice, because they were nearing the door to Tomoe's room. "How do you think he'll take it?"

"Remember Rakinunmura?"

"Yeah?"

"Much, much worse."

Aoshi pushed the door open, interrupting the sound of soft laughter. Tomoe looked up with shining eyes, her countenance happier than Aoshi had ever seen her.

"Aoshi-_kun_!" she said. "Come in. We were just remembering some misadventures."

"Sounds like fun," Aoshi said, and set the tray of food Beth had bid him carry up on the little side table. As he did so, he thought he saw a little flash of irritation in Himura's eyes.

_Jealous, are we?_ Aoshi thought. _Well, I wouldn't want to share her either, if she were mine. Just remember, Himura, that you're not the only one having to sit back and watch her die._

"You guys need anything?" Sano asked. "I mean, I know you can send Kenshin to get whatever, but if you want I can go."

"I think we're good," Tomoe said. "I'll call you if we do, though. Promise."

Sano looked ready to stay and visit, so Aoshi said, "Alright. We'll be leaving, then." He sent a sharp glare the rooster-head's way to make sure he got the message.

_They deserve every minute they've got_.

* * *

"This looks pretty good," Kenshin said, lifting the cover from Tomoe's food. "There's soup, and a smoothie. Are you hungry?"

"Not really," Tomoe said. "Uncle Seijuro says it's a side effect of my pain medication. But he always wants me to eat, so…"

With a shrug, she delicately lifted her spoon.

Beth had sent bread and cheese and salad with Kenshin's tomato soup, but he was less interested in it than in talking to Tomoe.

"Those ballet slippers, up there on the wall—are they yours?"

"Yes," Tomoe said. "Eat your lunch and I'll tell you the story."

Obediently Kenshin took a nibble of bread.

"I decided I wanted to be a ballerina when I was six or seven years old, shortly after Uncle Seijuro acquired my guardianship," she paused for a bite of soup. "He warned me when he hired the teacher that if I chose to take lessons, I was going to have to stick with it. I had no idea that he'd take the threat so seriously!" She laughed, then coughed a bit. "After a couple weeks of practice, the novelty had worn off and I wanted to quit. He wouldn't let me.

"I cried, threw fits, sulked…" she grinned at Kenshin's shocked expression. "I'm told it's quite common in children of that age. Even the ones who grow up to be well-behaved." She took a sip of her smoothie. "He wasn't impressed, though—in fact it irritated him very much."

"Shishou, irritated?" Kenshin said. "Shocking."

"Very," Tomoe agreed solemnly. "Finally one day he took me aside in his office. I still remember that conversation.

"'I want to tell you a story,' he said, 'About a very ungrateful little girl who was given dance lessons and didn't want them.' I absolutely loved stories, so I was hanging on his every word. 'This little girl, though,' he said, 'Is really a princess in disguise.'"

Kenshin snickered.

"What's so funny?" Tomoe asked.

"I just can't imagine my master being that nice," Kenshin said. "When I was training he would have smacked me with his _katana_ and told me to grow up."

"He's mellowed a lot, I guess." Tomoe said. "Anyway, he told me, 'The princess is waiting for a very special prince.' He described you in very flattering and unrealistic detail."

Kenshin laughed out loud at that, and Tomoe smiled back, blushing faintly. "Yes, well, at the time I was very taken with my redheaded prince in shining silver armor."

He shook his head, still amused.

"Uncle Seijuro told me that if I wanted my prince to come for me I had to be just as good and accomplished as I could," Tomoe said.

"Sounds like him," Kenshin agreed. "He always liked using guilt."

"True," Tomoe said, "but it did the job. I looked forward to my lessons the way most kids look forward to Christmas. I practiced all the time."

Kenshin smiled, imagining a little Tomoe in a miniature pink tutu.

"For years I wheedled details about you out of him," Tomoe said. "He never much liked to talk about you—I think it bothered him that out of all the _kumi_ he'd gathered, he couldn't find the one that was most important to him."

"Yeah right," Kenshin rolled his eyed. "He was probably just embarrassed. I'm the _baka deshi_, remember?"

Tomoe gave an inelegant snort. "Don't be ridiculous."

Kenshin chose to let it go. "So where did the shoes come from?" he asked.

"Those," Tomoe said, and a touch of pride entered her voice, "Are the shoes I danced in during my tryouts the day I was accepted to the Russian Ballet Company."

"You were in the Russian Ballet Company?" Kenshin blurted. "You must be really good!"

"Hm," Tomoe said. "I guess. Don't let your soup get cold."

Taking a few bites, Kenshin asked, "Do you miss it?"

"Yes," Tomoe said softly. "Every day. I only quit because of my tumor."

Kenshin was trying to avoid that particular subject, so he asked, "What was your favorite part?"

"Traveling all over Europe was amazing," Tomoe said. "We danced in Moscow, London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, even once in America. And being surrounded by the culture of dance, all those professionals all the time, was an incredible experience. And I learned Russian in the bargain."

She let off a string of incomprehensible syllables.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It means I wonder about _your_ life," Tomoe said. "About your interests, your childhood… how you got your scar." She traced the line on the left side of his face.

Kenshin shrugged. "It wasn't anything like… like the first time."

The unspoken words loomed between them: _When I killed Akira Kiyosato_. Kenshin didn't know what to say.

"It was a car accident," he muttered. "Drunk driver. Nobody died."

"Kenshin, I don't blame—"

Kenshin didn't think he could bear the pity in her eyes. "I'm sorry!" he burst out. "I didn't know you loved him, I was stupid, I didn't _know_! I didn't even want to kill him! I'm _sorry_, and I don't know how to make it better."

Tomoe didn't seem to know what to do; she was taken aback by his outburst. "Kenshin," she said. "I… I did… blame you. At first. But it was war, and you did what you what you had to do. He would have killed you if you hadn't been better."

Kenshin was taken aback. He'd honestly never thought of that.

"The past is gone," Tomoe said. "It can't hurt us anymore."

Kenshin shook his head. "It's not gone. I see it every night. I've watched you _die_ every night for the last year."

"Oh…" Tomoe reached out and took his hand, her wasted fingers tightening on his. "I hoped when you read my journal you would understand. I was trying to save you."

"Why?" Kenshin asked raggedly. "I killed the man you loved. I… I killed _you_."

"I'd already lived through the death of the man I loved once," Tomoe said. "I was selfish. I couldn't stand to do it again."

Kenshin scrubbed his hands over his face. "Selfish? I don't think that word applies when you die to save someone else."

"Maybe," Tomoe said. "But you've always been so much stronger than I. You did what I could not—you lived instead of just existing. Which is why I should tell you…" she took a deep fortifying breath. "I have a DNR."

"A what?" Kenshin asked blankly. "Is that another disease?"

"No," Tomoe shook her head. "It's a legal document; stands for 'do not resuscitate' order. It means that when I stop breathing and my heart stops beating, I don't want CPR or a ventilator. I just want to go in peace."

"I don't understand," Kenshin said, creeping desolation in his heart. "If it'll help you live longer, why not?"

"Because there's no guarantee my mind would survive," Tomoe said. Her fingers plucked unhappily at a loose thread in her sheet. "I could just be an empty, breathing corpse. And it would prolong the pain." An empty look came into her eyes. "I don't think you realize how bad the pain is sometimes."

Kenshin instantly quashed his objections, guilty for upsetting her. Besides, it was already done, wasn't it? Tomoe had made her decision.

"Thanks for telling me," he finally said.

Tomoe's smile was warm, but there was a shadow of unshed tears in her eyes. "Thank you for understanding."

Kenshin nodded mutely, the lump in his throat not permitting him to speak.

After a moment in which they both regained their composure, they changed the subject to safe, mundane things: favorite foods, favorite books, hobbies, movies they'd both seen. It didn't smooth away the hurt, or gloss it over, but they were able to hide from it for a while; at least until Tomoe's voice gave out again.

The sun was setting now, painting the far wall orange; the eastern sky through the window reflected a blurred array of Impressionist color. Kenshin reached over and turned on the bedside lamp; it was getting close enough to twilight that Tomoe's face had fallen into shadow.

"Would you read to me?" She asked hoarsely.

"Sure," Kenshin said, "What do you want?"

"This," Tomoe's fingers brushed a thick book with a brown leather cover, turned soft as butter by years of handling and use. "The twenty-third Psalm, please."

It was a Bible. It took Kenshin a moment to find the right passage—his family wasn't particularly religious. He stumbled a bit over the archaic phrasing as he began to read.

"_The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. _

"_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. _

"_He restoreth my soul; and leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. _

"_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. _

"_Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. _

"_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen._"

Surreptitiously, Kenshin lifted his head to see what effect the reading had had on her.

Tomoe was fast asleep.

Carefully he set her book aside; it was obviously important to her. Then he curled up in the window seat for what he promised himself was only going to be a short nap.

As he drifted off, one phrase kept running through his head, sending a chill through his blood.

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…_

_The shadow of death…._

* * *

Kenshin woke to someone shaking his shoulder. His eyes blinked open, and he saw his master, whose face was creased in irritation.

"C'mon, up." Shishou said. "Tomoe-_chan_ has to take some drugs now and she needs her privacy for a while."

Kenshin blinked sleepily and pulled himself to his feet. Beth was bent over Tomoe's bed, with a tray of syringes full of clear and yellow liquids at her elbow.

Tomoe smiled faintly at him. "Go on, sweetheart. It'll only be for a few minutes."

"I'll be right back," he promised.

Hiko snorted and hauled him out by his collar.

Kenshin waited until they were out of the room before he twisted and plucked at Shishou's hand. "I can walk!" He hissed.

"Sure," Shishou smirked and let him go.

Kenshin straightened his clothes irritably. They were scratchy and twisted from being slept in. "Did you need anything?"

"We need to discuss a few things," Shishou said.

"What?" Kenshin asked suspiciously. His stomach twisted in foreboding.

"Did Tomoe tell you about her DNR?" Shishou said.

"Yes," Kenshin said.

"Did she tell you about her prognosis?" Shishou continued.

"Yeah," Kenshin's mouth was dry and cottony. "She said… she only had a couple of weeks to live."

"It's more like three or four days," Shishou said. "She can't really eat or drink, and she has refused IV nutrition. Her liver and kidneys are shot to hell, and she's having seizure activity. She's very sick."

"I understand," Kenshin said tightly.

"But you were always slow on implications," Shishou said. "I'm not cruel enough to force you to stay away—"

"Just try it," Kenshin muttered.

Shishou shot him a sharp look. "But you do need to realize that she needs a lot of rest and help. You don't need to be taking up her time with your own problems. Capice?"

"I would never hurt her," Kenshin vowed. "Never."

"You may not do it on purpose," Shishou said. "But you're going to have to eat and sleep and take care of yourself if you don't want to worry her. I'm going to give you a prescription for a vitamin and a sleeping pill and I expect you to take them, understood?"

Kenshin glared. "Fine," he ground out. "I don't care what you want me to do—I'll do it. I just… want to stay with her."

Shishou nodded. "Then we understand one another. I'll arrange to have a cot put in and your meals sent up."

"—Thank you." Kenshin was startled by the gesture.

The door opened and Beth stuck her head out. "Kenshin, you can come in now. We're done."

Not waiting for further invitation, Kenshin went in and straight to Tomoe's bedside. She was pulling the neck of her hospital gown straight, and Kenshin thought he glimpsed some tubes coming out of her chest, just under her clavicle, but they disappeared under the lilac-patterned white cotton too quickly for him to be sure.

Beth brought breakfast, muesli and sausage for Kenshin and a protein shake for Tomoe. Tomoe used a remote to put on some soft jazz, and for a while they just sat quietly and listened, oddly peaceful.

"Is there anything you miss about the past?" Tomoe asked.

"Not a whole lot," Kenshin confessed. "The simplicity, I guess. People were too busy trying to survive to worry much about superfluous social issues."

Tomoe giggled. "'Superfluous social issues'?"

Kenshin's cheeks flamed. "It's true!"

"You sound like a college professor," she said.

Kenshin rolled his eyes. "Can you imagine me in college?"

Cocking her head, Tomoe looked genuinely concerned. "You don't plan to go?"

"Haven't thought about it much," Kenshin confessed. "I know what I was back in Meiji. I was…" shreds of memory came to him. _Laundry, the kitchen, the backwards sword…_ "Kind of a vigilante housekeeper, I guess. You don't need a college degree for that."

"Who says you have to be the same as you were then?" Tomoe argued. "You could be a photographer, or get a business degree if you wanted. Art history. Anything."

Kenshin shrugged. "I guess."

"What _do_ you want to do?" Tomoe pressed.

"I don't know," Kenshin admitted. "I… I want to help people, I guess."

"Of course you do," Tomoe's voice was already growing raw again. "Sorry," she murmured hoarsely, "But I don't think I can visit much more…"

"I can read to you, if you want," Kenshin offered.

Tomoe nodded wordlessly, and reached for the built-in bookcase beneath her side table. She pulled out a worn, heavily creased paperback.

Kenshin couldn't help but grin as he opened to the first page. She'd picked one of his favorites.

"_Concerning Hobbits…._"

Kenshin read for the better part of two hours. Tomoe sat with her eyes closed, her hand resting on his knee, to all appearances sound asleep; but whenever he paused she would open her eyes and give him a soft, reassuring smile.

He stopped occasionally to wet his throat, but had been reading for the better part of two hours when he felt her shaking his knee.

Thinking she was trying to get his attention, Kenshin glanced up, a smile on his lips as he prepared to offer an amusing commentary on the last paragraph.

Tomoe's eyes were rolled back in her head so that only the whites showed, and her back was arched off the bed like a bow. She was trembling, and her mouth worked spasmodically. She was turning an ugly shade of blue.

Frozen for half an instant, Kenshin stared, paralyzed, then he stumbled over to the call button Beth had shown him last night. He punched it, saw the little green light come on, and gabbled, "Beth, help! Something's wrong with Tomoe—I think she's not breathing!"

"I'm coming!" The intercom went off.

Kenshin knelt helplessly beside Tomoe, her shaking growing more pronounced. Every muscle in her body was extended, skin stretched so tightly over knuckles it was sure to break, the tendons in her neck standing out like ropes.

Beth burst through the door, took in the situation at a glance, and went to the little medication cabinet. "Hold her head," she directed. "Don't try to keep her still, just protect her head from banging into anything!"

Kenshin scrambled up to Tomoe's head, gently cradling her jaw in his palm. Beth grabbed four pre-filled syringes and yanked down the neck of Tomoe's gown, exposing two lines that went into her chest above her breast. She expertly pushed all four in rapid order; Tomoe's painful shakes began to lessen and quiet after the administration of the third, and an instant later she took a shallow, rattling breath, and a tinge of flesh-color came back into her ivory-blue cheeks.

"It was a seizure," Beth said, fixing the neck of Tomoe's gown and smoothing her sweat-damp bangs back from her forehead. "She'll probably sleep for a while now."

"What… what happened?" Kenshin asked, his mouth dry. "Is it something I did?"

"Oh, no." Beth sat heavily on Tomoe's bed. "It's the tumor in her brain—it's pressing on the nerves and making them go off in ways they shouldn't. There's nothing we can do, other than the Valium I just gave her."

"Does this happen a lot?" Kenshin asked. He'd never felt so helpless before in his life, and the sight of her pain had brought back ugly memories.

"More and more often," Beth sighed. "Up to two or three times a day, now."

"Does it…" Kenshin swallowed hard. "Does it hurt?"

"She doesn't even remember it, usually." Beth said. "Small blessings."

_Small. Right._ Kenshin thought bitterly.

"Why don't you go get a shower and change clothes?" Beth said. When Kenshin opened his mouth to protest, she said, "I'll call Aoshi to come and sit with her, okay?"

Kenshin took the fastest shower of his life, brushed his teeth, and pulled on the very first thing that came to hand. He sprinted all the way back to Tomoe's room, terrified of missing something.

The sickroom, however, was just as he had left it. Aoshi was sitting on a stool at Tomoe's side, hands clasped and head bowed. Kenshin sank heavily into the chair opposite him, and for a time they were both quiet.

"Do you plan to stay for a while?" Kenshin finally asked.

Aoshi glanced up, and Kenshin saw a mirror for his own pain in distant green eyes. "She is like a sister to me," he said finally. "I would like to stay with her, yes."

And they were silent again.


	8. The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

Sorry, sorry, sorry for the horrible long delay! School hit me like a brick wall with projects and papers. Thank you to my reviewers, and here is the next part!

I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, or _If I Die Young _by The Band Perry.

* * *

The seizure seemed to have been a turning point for the worse. Shishou took Kenshin aside privately that evening and warned him that it wouldn't be much longer, but Kenshin already knew; it was in the sound of her breathing, the mottling of her hands, the way she could barely keep her eyes open. Kenshin had danced often enough with Death to know when She was near.

The news that Tomoe wouldn't be with them much longer broke Kenshin's monopoly on the sickroom. Aoshi was with her every waking minute, and Miranda bounced in at regular intervals to check on them both. Sano paced up and down the hall outside, and Shishou leaned against the wall, alternately watching the monitors and glowering at nothing. Beth brought them all their meals and that was the way they kept time; that night it was in watches of insomnia, taking turns in silent vigil. Occasionally, Kenshin knew, some of the others talked to her, but he didn't listen; confessions of that kind were private.

Tomoe's conscious moments were few and far between, now, and Kenshin realized what a miracle it was that she had been able to be with him for the brief time she had. She slept nearly twenty-one hours a day, and when she was awake she hallucinated: her mother, her brother, Kenshin, music. It hurt his heart to hear her beg for him, and be standing right next to her, literally holding her hand, unable to comfort her.

Another day passed, each heartbeat marked by the ragged sounds of Tomoe trying to breathe.

That night Shishou forced them all to leave, eat a hot meal and shower and sleep in their beds, and Kenshin resented every minute spent away from her. The hours were long and torturous.

At the gray incunabulum of dawn, Shishou sent for him.

"She's asking for you," he said, and his face was unreadable.

Kenshin nodded and closed the door behind him.

The room was dim and quiet, and Tomoe was sitting propped up by pillows. She smiled, and if anything was more pale and thin than before. Her skin was tinged gray and Kenshin was sure he could have counted her ribs without effort if he could see them; her clavicles jutted forward like a shelf beneath the fragile line of her neck.

But she was awake, and lucid, and her smile was just as bittersweet as ever, bright even when tinged by grief.

"I'm going to miss you," she whispered, voice a ghost of its former self.

Kenshin took her hand in his, trying to warm the cold purple-marbled fingers. "And I you," he said.

"I'm afraid," Tomoe murmured, and Kenshin's heart broke. "Afraid of… of dying and… being alone."

"I wish I could go with you," Kenshin confessed, and he had to fight back tears.

"No," Tomoe said, and the words were just barely audible, "_Live_. Love you… so much…."

"I love you," Kenshin said, and pressed a kiss to her cool brow.

They were the last words she ever spoke to him.

* * *

Hiko grimly noted the time of death in the chart—2052—and closed the window on the computer. Tomoe's room was very, very quiet—Aoshi's eyes were dark and hooded, Sano looked like someone had kicked a puppy in front of him, and Misao's natural ebullience was stilled. Hiko was only grateful that he'd managed to get Daniel to bed before the denouement.

"All of you…" he sighed, running a hand through his hair, and grimacing at the unwashed, oily feel of too many hours on call. "Aoshi, send for Beth. Sano, take Misao and Kenshin and—"

"Um, Seijuro?" Sano said weakly. "Kenshin's gone."

Hiko smashed a fist down on the counter. "Damn!"

* * *

Kenshin ran blindly through the trees, true dark falling behind the indigo dusk and turning the forest into a deathtrap of tripping vines, bone-breaking holes, piercing thorns. A branch raked his face and Kenshin flinched, but he didn't stop; if he stopped the pounding of his bare feet on the rough earth, stopped the rough gasp for chill air, he would have to remember, and if he remembered he would cease to be.

He fell more than once, scraping his hands on unseen forest litter, unshed tears and the new moon obscuring his vision.

Finally he bashed his head on a low-growing branch and came to a rough stop on the cold earth, huddled at the base of a pine. He was allergic to pine trees, but he couldn't summon the will to move.

_She's gone_. This time it didn't matter that it wasn't his fault; the desolation was the same, the sense of abandonment. And even that was tinged with guilt, because it was hardly her fault that she left; it wasn't like she wanted to leave.

Kenshin wished he could just blank his mind; forget the guilt and emptiness that plagued him. He felt like a wrung-out sponge, empty and limp. For two short days, he had been able to bask in the warmth of her presence, and now she was gone, like a polar winter day with just moments of sunshine. He was colder now than ever.

_And what am I, anyway?_ He thought. _Not a normal kid… and I'll NEVER be the Battousai again… what am I? Who am I?_

_Tomoe thought I was Kenshin. And I was able to be that, for her. But now… I just don't know_.

There were flashlights strobing through the trees, voices calling his name; Kenshin knew vaguely that he should answer them, but raising his voice was too much effort. And just what would they do if they found him, anyway?

Nothing.

Yellow light played harshly over his eyes, and someone's voice called, "Hiko-_san_! Here!"

Hands pulled him to his feet, and someone roughly grabbed his chin; an exclamation of disgust, then Shishou's deep voice said, "That's going to need stitches. C'mon, we're going back to the house."

A stumbling, dragging walk back to the castle, and then the bright light of an exam room. Shishou was looming over him, a syringe with a bent needle in hand. "Kenshin, look at me. You cut your face and it needs stitches. I'm going to numb it. You're going to feel a pinch."

Kenshin could have told Shishou he was plenty numb already, that he didn't need whatever was on the other end of that needle, but Shishou was already bending over, both hands busy at the alleged wound. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a curved flash of silver and thick black thread, then something thick and white. He felt nothing.

"Sano, I need you to take Kenshin. Take him and _watch him_. Don't let him out of your sight. I'll come in and check on you later."

"Got it. C'mon, Kenshin, let's go…."

Again, someone tugging, pulling him. Kenshin couldn't summon enough energy to care.

Nothing mattered, anyway.

* * *

Sano watched his friend with no small trepidation. Kenshin had just lost his wife for the second time, and Sano remembered Rakinunmura after Kaoru's 'death' as one of the worst and most difficult times of his _own_ life, forget Kenshin's misery through the whole mess.

_He'd been small, so small and broken, like a rag doll thrown into the air and pounded into the floor too many times. So thin... tired… hopeless…._

The young man took a deep breath. Megumi always said that when his memories got to be too much he had to focus on the here and now; Kenshin needed that if anyone did.

He looked terrible. A nasty purple bruise was coming up on his forehead, and Seijuro had only cleaned the blood from the immediate area around the new cut bisecting Kenshin's old scar, and his neck, chin, and shirt were still crusted with dried flaky burgundy.

His eyes were lifeless and he moved only when Sano prodded him. He was like a puppet with all his strings cut. Sano had no idea what to do.

Sano took them to Kenshin's room on the hunch that he might be more comfortable on his own turf. He opened the door and a blast of chilly air hit him; someone had left the patio door open and the curtains blew and billowed in the breeze. Sano flipped on the lights and went over to close the doors.

"Holy crap, it's freezing in here. Kenshin, you want a fire?"

Kenshin shrugged, the movement stiff and unnatural. "I don't care," he said, tone completely flat.

Building the fire gave Sano a moment to pull himself together. He put a few neatly squared, well-seasoned logs on the gas grate, leaving enough in the cast-iron basket for later.

Rubbing his hands nervously, he turned and gave Kenshin a weak grin. "D'you want some beer? Or maybe a whiskey? Seijuro probably won't care if we raid his stash just this once."

Another of those robotic one-shoulder shrugs.

Hiko's admonition rang in Sano's ears: _Don't leave him alone_.

"Okay, um…"

"Sam—Sano—whatever the hell you want to call yourself," Kenshin said, "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but stop. Please. I need…" he sank onto the couch, curling up in the corner and laying his head on his arm. Sano guessed he was watching the fire.

Stiff and uncertain, Sano perched on the other end of the sofa. The fire was taking its sweet time to warm the room, so he bounced to his feet and went to adjust the thermostat. He was restless—he needed to do _something_, however small. Just sitting and waiting was driving him crazy.

"I'm gonna make some tea," he called to Kenshin. "You want milk or sugar?"

There was no reply.

Letting out an explosive sigh, Sano slung Kenshin's kettle onto the stove with a loud clatter and reached for the tea canister in the cabinet above the stove. Kettle filled with water, strainers in the cups, milk, sugar, lemon… his gut clenched as he listened to the silence in the other room. His helplessness in the face of Kenshin's grief was infuriating.

The kettle whistled and he poured a couple of mugs, adding liberal amounts of sugar and a slug of milk to each, remembering belatedly that Kenshin liked his coffee black, and, by extension, probably his tea as well. Oops. The sugar would do him good, anyway.

Scooping up both mugs, Sano stepped back into the living room. Kenshin hadn't moved an inch. Sano realized the redhead was shivering, deep bone-shaking shudders that ripped through his slender frame. Plunking the mugs down on the coffee table, he asked, "Hey… you okay? D'you want a blanket or anything?"

Kenshin didn't even acknowledge him. The shakes, if anything, increased.

_Crap. He's going into shock. Crap crap crap crap crap—_

Shock, at least, Sano knew how to deal with. Hiko had insisted they all have basic first-aid training and did frequent recertifications with them. He went and pulled the quilt off Kenshin's bed; it was cold to the touch, so he held it in front of the fire a moment before wrapping it securely around Kenshin.

"Man, I need you to talk to me," Sano said in a coaxing voice, kneeling so that he and Kenshin were at eye level. "I think you're going into shock. C'mon, don't ignore me."

Kenshin shrank away from him. "I'm f-fine. Leave me alone."

"I can't," Sano said. "It doesn't have to be anything important. Just talk."

The smaller man gave him a listless glare.

Desperately Sano cast about for a topic of interest, anything that would draw his reticent friend out of his shell. "Remember when Kaoru beat the tar out of Yahiko?" he blurted out.

"Which time?" Kenshin said colorlessly.

Sano mentally crowed. "He walked in on her when she was changing, so she smacked him around a bit and tied him to her _bokken_. Jou-_chan_ sure is a strong girl—"

"Shut up, _please_," Kenshin said. "I just want quiet. Leave me _alone_."

Opening his mouth—to say what, he didn't know—Sano was grateful when the door opened and Hiko walked in. There was something about a guy seven feet tall, muscle-bound, self-assured, eyes snapping with sarcastic intelligence that inspired confidence. Whatever the problem, Hiko could handle it. The master of Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_ took a swift survey of the room, from Sano to Kenshin and back again.

"He won't talk to me," Sano said in frustration.

"Hm," Hiko said. "Hang on a minute. I may need your help."

Sano nodded and stepped respectfully back.

Hiko stood for a long moment looking down at his apprentice before he sat. He had a sheaf of papers in one hand. "Kenshin," he said, "Pay attention for a minute. We're going to send her body to a crematorium in the morning. You're welcome to go down and see her if you want tonight, but we have some things we need to talk about first."

Kenshin pushed himself up, a painfully slow motion. The quilt fell down around his hips, and Sano could see goosebumps break out on his arms. "What things?"

"She had a will," Hiko said, not unkindly. "With some last requests and property to dispose. Part of it pertains to her funeral."

"Do what she wanted," Kenshin said hoarsely. "Otherwise I don't care."

"She left you some things," Hiko continued. "A house in France, some stocks, some of her books. There's a hope chest, too, of some personal items."

Nodding, Kenshin clasped his hands between his knees in an anxious gesture. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"It has to be done," Hiko said, and his black eyes were full of pity. "We might as well get it over with."

Head dipping in acquiescence, Kenshin murmured, "Yes. Get it over with."

Hiko shot him a sharp look. "For her funeral she just wanted a small, family affair—a headstone in the garden, her friends, her mother."

"Her mother?" Kenshin looked stricken. "She never said…"

"Mrs. Hart isn't well herself," Hiko explained. "She's in the hospital right now. Tomoe's only other request was…" for the first time, Hiko hesitated. "Her only other request was that you not be left alone. She asked that I assign you a roommate."

Sano thought he saw a flash of irritation in Kenshin's eyes, but it was gone too swiftly to be sure. "Are we done?"

"Almost," Hiko said. "After you see Tomoe I've got an extra dose of your sleep medication. And I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

Now the glare was unmistakable. "I don't want the drugs."

"You'll take it if I have to give you an injection." Hiko said briskly. "Easy way or the hard way, your choice. Are you ready to go?"

Kenshin stood, face still mutinous.

"Let's go then. And Sano! For God's sake, get him a sweater, it's freezing in here!"

* * *

Kenshin stared down at her face, so quiet and still. The cliché came to mind: _she looks as if she's sleeping_.

But she didn't. To Kenshin, who had seen more death than most people three times his age, she looked nothing but stone cold dead.

The mottling gave it away, purply-blue spidery traces on her hands and arms; that and the unnatural stillness. Even the most quiet, most ill, most deeply asleep person moved at least a little, be it the infinitesimal rise and fall of a breathing chest or the flicker of an eyelid.

Worst and most tellingly of all, her _ki_ was gone. His sense of Tomoe's energy had been quiet, almost understated, but potent as a drug. She always soothed him, calmed his soul when troubled, and now she was _gone_, torn away like scar tissue from a wound only just beginning to heal.

Kenshin brushed a hand over her cool cheek. At least she was whole, unmarked. No great gaping sword wounds splitting her from stem to stern—

Tearing his mind away from images of blood and snow was a Herculean effort. He couldn't take anymore; staring at the corpse wasn't going to bring back the woman.

Shishou was waiting outside the door—hovering as much as a near seven foot tall man could be said to _hover_—with an unreadable expression. "Finished?"

"Yes." Even that one word was dragged up with effort, because most of Kenshin's energy was going into not screaming, crying, _demanding_ her back because it wasn't _fair_!

"I've asked Sano to stay with you tonight." Shishou's voice was subdued. Kenshin, beyond caring what happened to him, began the trek up to his room.

Shishou was beside him, big cat-like strides adjusted to match Kenshin's shorter legs. "I expect you to talk about this with someone at some point, you know." He said abruptly.

Kenshin nodded wearily. In all his life he'd only successfully defied his master once, and the result had been a SNAFU of epic proportions. He was sick of fighting.

He made it to his apartment in a sort of haze and dully noted Sanosuke making up a pallet on the couch. His stomach clenched at the thought of sleeping. Sleeping meant dreams, and the kind of dreams he'd have tonight…

Insomnia was a small price to pay.

"Kenshin!" Shishou snapped his fingers in front of Kenshin's face, and he flinched. "No going off to shocky la-la land. Get changed and I'll give you your meds."

Kenshin glared but did as he was told. A pair of old, worn black cotton pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt were his sleeping attire; still unpleasantly cold, he added an overlarge bottle green sweatshirt.

He padded into the living room and curled up in a deep armchair, putting on a nasty poker face that he hoped was a clear indication that he needed some space.

No such luck. Shishou had a little clear, plastic pill cup and a glass of water, and an attitude that could only be described as 'bullheaded'.

"Master—" Kenshin began.

"No arguments," Shishou said brusquely. "I'm not going to have you beating yourself up over this all night. You haven't slept more than a couple hours in the last few days, have you?" his eyes were uneasily knowing.

"I don't want to sleep!" he ducked his head and bit his lip, aware that this bit of impertinence well deserved a tongue lashing.

Shishou's hand under his chin forced his head up. "You don't want to dream?"

"Yeah," his voice broke; mortified, he yanked his head away and let his bangs fall to cover his flushing cheeks.

"At some point you _will_ have to sleep," Shishou pointed out with a surprising lack of sharpness. "It will be easier to deal with now, while you have people here to help you. Sano will be here, and he can come get me if things get out of hand. Do you _want_ to wait until you're alone?" _There_ was the touch of asperity that characterized his master!

Kenshin thought about it for a second. "I guess," he allowed.

Shishou handed him the little plastic pill cup, three little flattened spheres rattling around in the bottom. "What is it?" Kenshin asked a little apprehensively.

"Half a point twenty-five Xanax, twenty-five of Benadryl, and your Restoril," Shishou said. "I'll be shocked if you're awake before noon tomorrow."

"Oh." Kenshin looked apprehensively at the pills for a moment longer before he shrugged and downed them all in one gulp.

Curled in the cold bed, darkness was swift to follow.


	9. Death's Twilight Kingdom

I know, another very long break between updates... but here are many chapters! I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, but I do own the plot. And a copy of the manga. ^_^

* * *

Hiko rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the migraine he could feel coming on. He'd called the state to report Tomoe's death, and arranged the pickup of her body, and then made a list of people and companies he needed to call for her funeral.

Now he was checking his professional e-mail, the address he provided to 'patient' families, companies, and the other psychiatric professionals with whom he corresponded. The problem now was an involved e-mail from Kenshin's mother; he pinched the bridge of his nose and read it again.

_Dr. Nielson,_

_As you may have guessed from your last encounter with my family, there has lately been a great deal of friction in my marriage, in part because of my decision to send Kenneth to your facility, and in part due to other factors I will not discuss here._

_I have no intention of confiding in you, sir—quite the opposite, in fact. I merely mean to give you a warning: My husband and I are separated with the intention to divorce as soon as our lawyers have the paperwork in place._

_Clearly I have not had an opportunity to tell Kenneth. With his therapy and moving all the way to Germany, I was uncertain how I should tell him or even whether he should know. I leave it to your discretion._

_If you do choose to tell Kenneth, please have him contact me at (215)555-5330. I am currently staying with my parents, so he won't be able to reach me at the house number. I have the rest of his things there._

_Even if you don't tell him about the divorce, please have him call me. I miss the sound of his voice._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Miss Elen Westfield_

Hiko didn't much care that Kenshin's parents were getting a divorce; indeed, his opinion of Frank Himmel was rather low. His dilemma was whether to tell Kenshin. The little idiot was sure to blame himself, and Hiko didn't know whether the guilt would finally break the last, fragile hold on reality.

On the other hand, if he kept it a secret, Kenshin was sure to see it as a breach of trust. And trust was one thing he desperately needed to keep in his relationship with his apprentice.

_To tell or not to tell… _Damn_ that woman for dumping her problem on me!_ _It's only fair to dump it right back. I'll tell Kenshin to call his mother because she has important news and leave it at that._

At least marginally pleased with his decision, he picked up his phone and tapped the first icon on speed dial. There was one other person who needed to be aware of tonight's events.

Two rings, and then a click as the man on the other end picked up.

"_Hajime speaking._"

"Hey, old man." Hiko grinned at the admittedly rare pleasure of being able to get a hold of his best friend. "How's Cairo?"

"_Hot. Sandy. Why'd you call?_"

Hiko sobered immediately. "We lost Tomoe a couple of hours ago."

"_Damn. And only found Himura a week ago?_"

"Yeah," Hiko said.

"_He's not taking it well._" It wasn't a question.

"How would you take it if Tokio died?" Hiko snapped.

"_Don't take your temper out on me._" There was amusement in Hajime's tone. "You _were the one who wanted to be the psychiatrist_."

"I know," Hiko said. "It's all gone as badly as it could have gone. He had just enough time to bond with her all over again before she died."

"_It would've been worse if he'd had no chance to see her at all,_" Hajime said with final certainty. There was a brief pause. "_I could come snap him out of it, if you like._"

Hiko found himself grinning again. "You know I fully appreciate the full value of shock, but honestly, Hajime, you'd have too much fun."

Hajime bit off a chuckle. "_Probably. Tokio says hello, by the way._"

"How is she?" Hiko asked. He'd grown up with Tokio and thought of her much as a little sister.

"_Pregnant again,_" Hajime's tone of disgust was clear, even over the crackly international line. "_She decided she was sure last night._"

Laughing uncontrollably, Hiko managed, "Birth control does nothing for you two, does it?"

"_No,_" Hajime said sourly. "_We'll head back across the pond tomorrow for her prenatal care._" He paused. "_Five, Seijuro!_"

"You know you love it," Hiko said spitefully. "Congratulations."

There came a wet sound through the speakers. "_Got to go. Tokio's puking again. Take care of yourself, Seijuro._"

"Take care yourself," Hiko muttered as he hung up. Odd as their conversation had been, he felt better.

Taking a minute to stretch, Hiko glanced at the clock. Roman numerals in an octagonal mahogany frame indicated that it was nearing five in the morning.

_Better check on Sano and Kenshin_, he thought, joints popping audibly, _then head to bed. Tomorrow is going to be the long day from Hell._

The mansion was eerily quiet as he ghosted through the halls, lit only by the occasional white-glowing wall sconce. _All snug in their beds_, he thought sardonically.

Silently, silently, he eased the door open on well-oiled hinges. The little apartment was cloaked in shifting shadows from the light of the low-burning fire and a single table lamp. Sano was still awake, sitting in one corner of the couch with the remote dangling from one hand and a cup of coffee at his elbow. The TV was on old cartoons, turned down to near-silence.

"When did Kenshin fall asleep?" Hiko asked quietly. He could feel Kenshin's _ki_, muted with unconsciousness but unresting, a seething river beneath thick ice.

"About an hour ago," Sano said, setting the book down on the couch. The spine was so broken that the book remained flat. "I've had to wake him up a couple of times."

"Nightmares," Hiko said with disgust. "I gave that boy a horse's dose of Restoril, he hasn't slept in two days, and he _still_ has nightmares?"

Sano shrugged. "Don't ask me to explain it."

"Right," Hiko said. He was exhausted, more in mind than in body, and it was beginning to show. "You need a break?"

"Nah," Sano said, eyes straying to the open bedroom door. "You might check in on him, though."

On catlike feet Hiko padded to the black portal and peered in. A single shaft of yellow light, emitted from the mostly-closed closet, cast a thin thread of illumination across the blue coverlet; it was pulled almost up to Kenshin's chin. He was tense even in sleep.

Curled up on his side, Kenshin's face was reddened and sweat-damp, hair clinging in small almost-curls to his cheeks and forehead. A feeling that was nearly paternal rose in the vicinity of his heart, and he smoothed the loose tendrils away from the troubled brow. Kenshin looked _young_, so much like the child Hiko remembered.

The boy stirred, and Hiko drew back, but Kenshin's eyes didn't open. Quietly, he adjusted the quilt so that it wasn't twisted and slipped out.

Sano glanced up from his book. "You okay?"

"Get some sleep," Hiko said abruptly. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

He left as fast as he could. _If bird-brain can tell I'm pissed it's time to go_.

Hiko didn't want to admit that it might be something softer, more personal, and far more painful than anger that Sanosuke had seen.

* * *

Kenshin felt like he was trying to swim up through molasses. His limbs were heavy, weighted; his eyes were gummed together and once un-gummed, nearly impossible to raise, as though each lash was made of lead. His mouth was dry and cottony, and he felt stupid.

For a time he laid woodenly in his bed, staring at the ceiling, not thinking, not feeling. It wasn't right to be so exhausted first thing in the morning—

_What time is it?_

The thought took a moment to penetrate, and it was an even longer moment before he could summon the energy to lift his head and glance at the alarm clock. Blocky glowing green numbers read eleven twenty-seven AM.

It was only a great effort of will that got him out of bed. He was groggy, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

His sitting room was silent and empty; the only evidence of occupation a tattered manga and a crumpled abandoned blanket. Kenshin passed through it lightheaded and sluggish.

There was no one in the halls, no one in the _dojo_ or the dining room. It seemed as if the whole of Hohenzollern was deserted as he wandered it.

Finally, he heard the sound of water running and splashing. Not sure why he was doing so, he followed the sound.

A swinging Dutch door opened into the huge, cavernous white-tiled kitchen. Beth was standing at the sink, washing pots that looked to Kenshin like they didn't really need washing. He stood in the doorway, uncertain now that he was here what he wanted to do or say, or even if he wanted Beth to know that he was there; but he was fairly certain he didn't want to leave, either.

Beth must have sensed him, because she turned, wiping her hands on a towel. There was a suspicious redness in the rims of her eyes. "Oh, Kenshin! I was wondering when you were going to be up. D'you want some breakfast?"

Without waiting for an answer she turned and took down a skillet, placing it on the glass-top stove.

"Where is everybody?" Kenshin asked, taking a tentative seat on the edge of a barstool. The concept of a crying woman made him infinitely uncomfortable; if Beth started tearing up again he had every intention of bolting.

"Dr. Seijuro took the boys to Berlin, and Misao's still asleep, as far as I know," Beth said, heading for the fridge. "Fried or scrambled eggs?"

"Scrambled," Kenshin said automatically. "When will they be back?"

"Sometime this afternoon, I expect." Beth said. She dropped a dollop of butter into the skillet and began scraping it across the pan. "They had some things to take care of before the funeral."

_The funeral_.

Kenshin felt like he'd been punched, the breath frozen in his chest; a sort of blackness swirled before his eyes. Up to this point he'd not thought about Tomoe's death, so now the soul-wracking memories hit him with the force of a load of bricks. He gripped the counter with both hands, desperately trying to breathe. The façade of normalcy was crumbling around his ears, and the room was spinning in a nauseating fashion.

Beth's hands were cold on his neck and face as she gently smacked him. "Kenshin, can you hear me? I need you to answer me, sweetie. C'mon, remember to breathe, don't hold it—"

A jerky inhalation, and Beth's features swam into focus. "Hey," she said, "Are you okay? When's the last time you ate something?"

"Um… I can't remember…" he confessed. Beth frowned and went to the counter where she poured a glass of orange juice.

"Drink it slow," she said, standing over him with her arms crossed. "You're pale, clammy, disoriented… I bet your blood sugar's the pits."

"Your butter is smoking," Kenshin said faintly.

Beth swore out loud and snatched the smoking skillet off the stove; Kenshin sipped at his juice. He was already beginning to feel better—the room had stopped spinning and his stomach was beginning to settle. Kenshin took a few deep breaths and tried to ignore the smell of burned butter.

"Feel better?" Beth asked. "Some of your color's coming back."

"Yeah," Kenshin said. "I'm sorry about this…."

"You just need to eat more regularly, that's all." Beth said. "I'm going to put together a plate of leftovers for you, I'd probably burn the house down if I tried to cook this morning."

"You don't have to—"

"Do _not_ argue with me," Beth said, piling fruit onto the counter and brandishing a ten inch chef's knife. "You're a hundred pounds soaking wet. _Maybe_. You can't afford to miss a meal."

Kenshin went back to nursing his drink in injured silence.

Beth chopped an apple and a piece of cheese and put three slices of ham in the microwave. "I think I've got some tarts in here somewhere…" she muttered, disappearing into the pantry.

Kenshin rubbed at his temples in a vain effort to control the pain in his head. He still felt so foggy.

Emerging triumphant from the pantry, Beth waved a big Tupperware container full of small brown flattened spheres. "Found 'em," she said, pulling the plate out of the microwave and piling two tarts and the rest of the food next to the ham. It filled the kitchen with a salty smell.

She pushed the full plate over to him. "Eat up!"

Kenshin picked up an apple slice and nibbled on it. The normally sweet, crisp fruit tasted bitter. "Do you want any help with anything?"

"No thanks, sweetie." Beth said, pausing to pet his long red hair. "The wake's being catered, and dinner tonight is just going to be some soup and sandwiches. They're already made."

"Oh." Kenshin picked up a shred of ham off his slice, and because she was watching closely, he ate it.

There was an unpleasant metallic taste, like… like…

_Blood_, he realized. _It tastes like blood._

Abruptly he pushed the plate away. "Beth, I don't feel good. I'm going to go to my room."

Beth's kind face creased with worry. "What's the matter?"

"I just need to lie down," he said, tearing away and running up the stairs.

He slammed his apartment door closed behind him and leaned back against it. It had been weeks since any of his food had tasted of blood.

_Don't think about it, it's not real, it's not…._

Kenshin slid down the door until he was sitting with his legs drawn up, forehead on his knees, arms around his shins, eyes hot and dry. He ought to be able to cry for Tomoe—he'd loved her more than life itself, more than anything. Maybe if he could cry it would help, but his emotions seemed encysted. The only thing he could feel was a depressed misery.

_Only it is real. It's all real. I'm a goddamn murderer!_

The sun inched up past the blue sheers on the French doors; Kenshin had no idea how much time had passed.

A memory surfaced, more emotion than thought: His red red blood dripping on her pallid face, like marigolds floating in milk.

The long cut on his face had stopped bleeding after Shishou stitched it up. It was very deep, nearly all the way through his cheek, and he knew it was going to scar. Fingertips traced the knobbly newness of scabs and thread. How long had that cross-shaped mark been a part of the Hitokiri Battousai's identity? How many times had he wished it gone?

_If I had never lived, she would still be alive. She was waiting for me. If I hadn't come, she would still be here._

No! he shook his head vigorously. Her last words had been for him to _live_.

_My punishment. To live without her, and know that I hurt her._

A car door slammed and a deep voice raised itself in irritated scolding. Kenshin realized that his Master, Aoshi, and Sanosuke had returned from Berlin. Almost on its heels followed the intuition that someone would be up to check on him, certainly on Shishou's orders; then would come wooden interactions, attempts at food, (_God, the taste of blood!_) and maddening if well-meaning condolences.

He couldn't handle it. With the grace and speed that were the hallmarks of his sword school, he opened the French doors and slipped over the balcony. It was a simple thing to land lightly on his toes and set off at a ground-eating lope for the cherry orchard.

* * *

"Idiot!" Hiko growled at Sanosuke as the younger man slammed the door of the Lamborghini. "Be careful. That car's worth more than you are!"

He ignored Sano sticking out his tongue at his back as he headed for the front door. It had been an exhausting morning arranging for the tombstone, flowers, a musician, a caterer, letters to Tomoe's friends, the tuxes, all to be ready by tomorrow morning. And he was doing it on no sleep at all.

The cost had been astronomical, but he didn't much care. It would be better for all of them if Tomoe's funeral was sooner rather than later.

Coat on the rack, keys in the bowl, check on Kenshin; it was a checklist in his head. He'd glanced in on his _deshi_ this morning before heading to the city, woken him and explained where they were going, but Kenshin had been so groggy Hiko doubted he remembered the conversation.

Misao's door, right at the top of the stairs, was open. Out of pure habit Hiko glanced in.

Much like her personality, Misao's room was a study in exuberant chaos. The décor of the apartment leaned already to gauzy scarves on the walls, clashing rugs, and sparkly clutter. With Misao's plethora of clothes, shoes, and makeup supplies scattered over every available surface, it was a grand ecosystem of girly mess.

The owner of the fantastic display was sitting on her leopard print couch watching TV. Tissues were tucked into the cracks of the couch and scattered over the red leather-topped table, as well as overflowing from the black wire wastebasket. She sniffled occasionally at her black-and-white movie.

Hiko had to chuckle. "Do you need me to send Aoshi up?"

Misao turned a dramatically red, swollen, tear-stained face up to him. "Did he get my chocolate?"

Hiko snorted. "You'll have to ask him. Anything else?"

"No." Misao sank more deeply into her fuzzy red blanket.

Respecting her desire for privacy, Hiko stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Kenshin's door, at the other end of the hall, was closed. Hiko tapped lightly, and frowned when there was no answer.

"Kenshin?" The door opened easily; it wasn't locked. The apartment was neat and quiet. Hiko glanced into the kitchen and bathroom, but both were empty. He picked up his phone and dialed the land line in the kitchen.

"_Beth speaking._"

"Beth, is Kenshin with you?"

"_No,_" she sounded puzzled.

"Well do you know where he is?" Hiko was beginning to have a bad feeling….

"_A couple of hours he said he didn't feel good and went to lay down. Isn't he in his room?_"

Hiko was about to answer when something blue and flapping caught his eye. He walked over the studio and realized the French doors onto the balcony were open.

"Beth, never mind." He said, staring at the blank balustrade. "I think I know where he went."

Cussing irritably under his breath Hiko headed for the stairs, passing Aoshi who was on his way up, presumably to see Misao.

"Himura's missing?" he asked.

"Probably in the orchard," Hiko said. "He left the balcony door open."

"And either he wants to be found, leaving a clue like that, or he was too upset to cover his tracks," Aoshi agreed.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Hiko said. No one could blame him if the slammed the door a bit as he went out.

_He landed well, at least,_ Hiko thought, looking at the very faint indentations left in the grass. He paused and cocked his head. _And headed… for the orchard._

Heading in the general direction of the orchard, Hiko watched the earth for signs of passage. There were very few. He scanned the trees—Kenshin liked heights when he was upset. He couldn't remember how many times he'd pulled a fussy child off the roof, or a grump of a teenager off a rocky outcropping.

Finally he found a single strand of red hair coiled at the foot of a huge, ancient, gnarled tree. The blossoms were so thick on the tree that he couldn't even see the form of his _deshi_, but he could sense the palest shadow of a familiar, grieving _ki_.

With the ease of long experience Hiko swung himself into the lower branches; they were easily thick enough to stand on. And just above his head was a pair of bare, slender feet. It took a few minutes for Hiko to pull himself through the thick foliage since he was so much broader than his petite, underweight apprentice. He was surprised at how still Kenshin was, that he hadn't tried to get up and go somewhere else.

Picking cherry blossom petals out of his hair, Hiko hauled himself up onto the branch where Kenshin was sitting. For a long time he didn't move or say anything at all; over his career he had found that saying the wrong thing was far, far worse than saying nothing at all. And as a plus, silence often pressured the other person into beginning the conversation.

Kenshin however seemed immune to that particular pressure. He was very quiet and still, framed by brown bark and young green leaves. His eyes were closed, but Hiko knew Kenshin was aware of his presence: There had been a spike in his _ki_ and a change in his breathing.

It was an absolutely perfect day, seventy-two degrees with a gentle breeze. The sun shone brightly, dappling their skin through the green. A very few puffy white clouds sailed serenely in the broad blue, and Hiko was soon pleasantly warm and drowsy. He hoped the nice weather would last through the funeral tomorrow morning.

"Why here?" Hiko asked.

"Why not?" Kenshin asked. "I like heights. I can see everything. They feel safe."

"You left the house," Hiko said. He was treading on some very thin ice indeed.

"Am I some kind of prisoner now?" Kenshin snapped, eyes coming open, body language shifting from defensive to aggressive, tense and clenched. Hiko had to give his apprentice credit; the boy once called the 'Demon of Kyoto' had an impressively heart-stopping golden glare.

_I taught him that trick. Not going to work on me._ The 'look' rolled off him like water.

"No, you're not a prisoner," Hiko said. "It's that you ran off without telling anyone where you went. People worry when you do that sort of thing."

Kenshin shook his head slowly. "You're worried that I'm going to kill myself," he said bitterly.

_Damn that boy's perception!_ Suicide _had_ been a niggling concern in the back of Hiko's mind, but he hadn't wanted Kenshin to realize that he suspected it. "I don't think—"

"Well you don't have to worry," Kenshin interrupted. His expression was twisted with pain, but he seemed unaware of it. "Tomoe told me to live. So I'm going to."

Hiko sighed. "Come back to the house, would you? This isn't a good time to be alone."

"But I _want_ to be alone." Kenshin said.

"Are you punishing yourself or something?" Hiko asked in exasperation.

Kenshin gave him a sideways, miserable grin. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to psychoanalyze me."

Sighing again and massaging his temples to ward off an inevitable tension headache, Hiko said, "You are the most stubborn pig on the whole planet."

Standing abruptly on the branch—Hiko noted the superb example of balance with unconscious approval—Kenshin asked, "If I go back to the house, will you leave me alone?"

"Yes," Hiko said without hesitation. He'd already spoken to Aoshi and Sano about frequent checks on Kenshin, and they had agreed, dividing up the time between them. _Hiko_ would certainly leave him alone!

Kenshin nodded and dropped easily off the branch. Hiko followed, taking the twenty-foot drop as easily as most people get out of bed. They went back to the house in silence.


	10. Life After Love

The next day dawned miserable and overcast, with a sort of weepy drizzle that seemed more like tears than rain. Hiko watched the low-slung clouds with intense displeasure; the wet made all of them look like particularly bedraggled crows.

The commentary on fashion, of course, simply was to distract him from the fact that he was burying the child who had been like a daughter to him.

Kenshin didn't seem to feel the damp. His hair was an auburn tail clinging to his neck, dripping from the ragged ends. Hiko knew from personal experience how uncomfortable that was, but Kenshin didn't seem to notice. His head was bowed in a classic expression of grief, long bangs obscuring his eyes. His suit was damp through, and he shivered every now and then, but the attitude of his _ki_ was focused entirely on his inner turmoil.

Others were gathered: Sano, Aoshi, Misao, sobbing into Aoshi's chest; Megumi and Kaoru were huddled beneath a tree, Kaoru wearing a veil to hide her identity from Kenshin.

_That_ had been a knock-down drag-out screaming fight. Kaoru had flown in with Megumi on a red-eye flight from Washington D.C., more than twenty hours on a plane or waiting for one. After saying her goodbyes to Tomoe, she'd stormed into his office with hair and eyes wild, and demanded to see Kenshin _right now, dammit!_

It had taken every ounce of Hiko's formidable persuasive ability to convince her to keep herself incognito just a little while longer, and let Kenshin mourn in peace before he had any more major shocks. His reasons were simple. Kenshin had an epic capacity for guilt, and the meter was already through the roof with Tomoe's death; Kaoru was too much an undesired complication.

Hiko took a deep breath. Tomoe had requested a simple funeral, and for the most part he had he complied with her wishes; the only ostentation was the hundreds of bouquets of hothouse irises surrounding her slender white headstone.

"Tomoe didn't want much excitement or fanfare," he began. "She preferred quiet moments." Why did Kenshin flinch? "She asked for her favorite poem to be read, her favorite ballad to be sung, and a moment of silence. So—" Clearing his throat, he read from a slender volume:

"_Come away, O human child_

_To the water and the wild_

_With a faerie, hand in hand_

_From a world more full of weeping_

_Than you can understand._

"Alfred, Lord Tennyson." Hiko closed the book, and a young soprano flown in from Britain raised a sweet, delicate voice. It was _Into the West_, by Annie Lennox.

"_Hope fades into a world of night…_

_Don't say we have come now to the end_

_White shores are calling; you and I will meet again_

_And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping…_

"_And all will turn to silver glass_

_A light on the water gray ships pass_

_Into the West._"

There were few dry eyes. The moment of silence descended on its own, blanketing the iris-scented clearing with bittersweet peace. Hiko's own throat felt tight as he remembered the young woman he had raised from a toddler. She had been one of the very few people he had both liked and respected; her kindness and love for his apprentice had been utterly genuine.

Clearing his throat, Hiko broke the silence. "She was an amazing girl, and she will be missed."

The rain began to fall in earnest.

* * *

The wake was a subdued affair. Hiko had finger food catered, knowing that most of the children would prefer it to a formal sit-down meal.

Sano had downed far more _sake_ than was good for him, and was currently scowling at no one and nothing in particular. Megumi sat beside him, stroking his hands and talking to him in a low, continuous stream. Misao was hiccoughing into Aoshi's shoulder, too worn out to cry properly anymore. Kaoru was sitting beside a plate of shortbread, munching through it in a steadily morose fashion. Daniel was hovering by her elbow, more concerned with his _sensei_'s distress than the death of a girl he had hardly known.

And Kenshin… Kenshin was ensconced in an alcove, shielded by a large ficus. A plate of food sat in his lap, along with a half-full glass of booze. He hadn't spoken a word to anyone since locking himself in his room the day before. Kaoru kept shooting Hiko dirty looks—only partly mitigated by her veil—over her cookies between stealing worried glances at Kenshin.

Hiko rubbed his temples. Some of Tomoe's friends from the Russian Ballet Company were coming down to pay their respects, and he would have to organize a meal for them and keep his students out of their way. Suddenly, he remembered that Kenshin's mother had called and was expecting a call in return.

It was as good a distraction for a depressed young man as any.

He brushed the tropical plant leaves aside. "Kenshin," he said softly. "Your mother called yesterday. She'd like you to call her back."

Kenshin stood, mechanically setting his plate back on the chair. "Did she say what she wanted?"

"No. But she left a number." Hiko handed Kenshin the Post-It note with the number scrawled on it.

Kenshin took it with a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "I have her cell number. Why…?"

"I believe she is staying with your grandparents," Hiko said neutrally. "There's a phone in the lobby or your apartment, take your pick. International calling instructions are on the phone."

"Alright…" Kenshin tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket and slipped out the door so quietly that only Kaoru and Hiko saw him leave. Hiko watched with concern and outright fear churning in the pit of his stomach. Kenshin was so strong, but the strain of the memories of Tomoe's death combined with the grief of the second… he didn't know what he was going to do.

And he hated the sensation of being uncertain. He'd never been uncertain before in his life, but Kenshin just always managed to screw things up!

* * *

The phone rang once, twice, three times; a warm, soft voice answered, "_Hello?_"

"Hi, Grandma. It's K-Kenny," he said. 'Kenshin' already felt more familiar, more right…

"_Hi sweetie!_" Grandma Westfield sounded delighted to hear from him. "_How's Germany? Do you like it?_"

"Um…" not sure how much his mother had told her, Kenshin said, "It's nice. Haven't seen much of it yet, though."

"_That'll come in time,_" Grandma said. "_But you want to talk to your mom, right?_"

"Yeah," Kenshin said.

"_One second, sweetie._" Her voice moved away from the speaker. "_Elen!_"

And then his mother was on the line. "_Kenny! How are you, baby?_"

"Fine, Mom." 'Fine' didn't even begin to cover his emotional state, but Kenshin didn't want to delve into that Gordian knot.

"_I really miss you,_" Mom said. To his horror, Kenshin felt a tightening in his throat and a stinging in his eyes.

Struggling to keep his voice normal, Kenshin said, "I miss you too."

"_What's Germany like?_" Mom's voice was cheerful. "_Is your therapist nice?_"

_You have no idea,_ Kenshin thought. "He's cool," was all he said. "Very honest."

"_Are you making friends?_" her tone was painfully hopeful, and Kenshin couldn't bear to hurt her.

"All the people here are-" _demons from my past_ "—really nice."

"_I'm glad,_" Mom said. "_Grandma and Grandpa and I are going to come up and visit you pretty soon._"

Kenshin noticed his father missing from that equation. "Does Dad have a conference or something?"

"_Well…_" for the first time, Mom sounded hesitant. "_That's… part of the reason I called. Your dad and I aren't… exactly together anymore._"

"You're getting a divorce?" Kenshin was shocked. It was a numb sort of shock; he'd had no idea there were problems in his parents' marriage, but the emotion was distant, as though it was happening to someone else.

"_Yes,_" Mom said. "_Right now it's just a separation, but I have a court date set for a few weeks from now._"

Kenshin could hear the waver in her voice. "Are you okay? Is Dad being nasty to you?"

"_This isn't your problem,_" Mom said firmly. "_And I don't want you to worry about it. I'm serious, Kenneth. Focus on getting well and don't worry about what's happening over here._"

Kenshin began to get irritated, and he clamped down on the feeling. Getting angry wouldn't do anything for this situation. "It kind of is my problem," he pointed out. "There's custody crap, isn't there? I mean, I'm not really interested in spending summers and every other weekend with Dad."

"_I'm going to try to get complete custody,_" Mom said. "_My lawyer said emancipation isn't really possible, because of your history of hospitalizations, but we're going to do our best._"

"So… what happened?" Kenshin asked after a pause. A terrible thought struck him. "He didn't hit you, did he?"

"_No! No, sweetie,_" Mom insisted. "_It was nothing like that. I guess it was just a combination of things. He was so intolerant of your condition, and so controlling of both our lives… and…_" her voice got very quiet. "_He had a girlfriend in New York City._"

"You're kidding," Kenshin breathed.

"_No,_" Mom said. "_I just found out. All those weekend business trips…_"

"Mom," Kenshin said impulsively, "Come stay here. I bet the doctor won't care."

He could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke. "_That means a lot to me—you have no idea how much—but I think I'll stay here with Grandma and Grandpa. Unless you need me there?_" Her tone gained an edge of worry. "_Did something happen?_"

"No!" Kenshin didn't want to even think about her reaction if he told her that he was grieving the death of a friend and lover. She'd never take her eyes off him again. "No, it's fine. I'm just worried about you."

"_You're too sweet,_" she said, apparently pacified by his answer. "_I promise I'll call you more often, okay? I know all this can't be easy for you._"

"Sounds like I'm doing better than you," Kenshin teased. He needed to sound cheerful, he realized; Mom needed to be able to not worry about him while she got her divorce. "I'm doing just fine. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"_You bet. I love you._"

"Love you too."

"_Bye._"

"Bye."

Kenshin hung up the phone and sat down on his bed. He was surprised by how tired he felt; the simple act of cheerfully deceiving his mother had taken a toll, body and mind.

He hadn't slept much the night before. He'd drifted off once or twice, but both times terrible nightmares had jarred him back to wakefulness, leaving him damp and panting.

Still, he hadn't cried. Kenshin wondered what was wrong with him. He'd wept the first time she died like a child, holding her body there in the bloody snow. Was he so damaged now that he couldn't even grieve for a woman he had loved more than life itself? Or was he a demon, the way the villagers had whispered when he was small?

Miserably he flopped back on the bed. Kenshin was so _tired_…he wanted to sleep, but feared the out-of-control terror of the nightmares that accompanied it.

Long red hair tickled the side of his neck, and he turned his head to rid himself of the irritating feeling. His gaze fell on his desk, and on it the white shoebox tied with a shimmery lavender ribbon.

Of course! The box… Tomoe's last gift. Maybe that would help!

With a burst of eager energy, he jumped up and snatched the box from the table, shaking fingers undoing the ribbon and lifting the lid from the box. Kenshin's hungry gaze devoured the objects within, wrapped in pale purple tissue paper.

There was a small, black lacquer bottle with a pattern of white and amethyst flowers twining up the slender shape; Kenshin knew, without opening it, that it contained _hakubaikou_, her favorite scent. Beside it lay an antique dagger: A _tanto_ in the _Aikuchi_ style. Kenshin drew it and inspected the blade—someone had cared for the steel exceptionally well, because the metal looked shiny, sharp and new.

A small red teddy bear sat beside the _tanto._ A note was tucked into the bear's paws, and Kenshin picked it up and opened it. Tomoe's elegant _kanji_ leapt crisp and clean off the thick white rice paper.

_Anata,_

_These are some things that were special to me. I wanted you to have them._

_The bear's name is Akage-_san_. He was given to me on my third birthday to comfort me and keep me safe from bad dreams._

_The knife I'm sure you recognize. The perfume was actually someone else's idea. He said it was calming for you, so I included it. There's also a book and a DVD, under everything else. The book is my journal of the last three years, and the DVD is a video of my role in _The Butterfly_. I always wanted you to see me dance._

_The last things are treasures of my childhood: an hermetically sealed Queen Alexandra's Birdwing butterfly, a ruby geode, a lullaby written by a friend; they always reminded me that life is beautiful and worth living._

_All my love,_

_-Tomoe_

_P.S. I added the ring later. I wasn't sure at first whether to give it to you, but I just wanted you to know… I always considered myself your wife._

Digging through the crinkly tissue paper, Kenshin found a tiny organza bag. He pulled the ribbons open and shook out a tiny silver ring. A haiku had been engraved on the inside, and Kenshin squinted to read it: _winter respite—the sun warms the stone dragon's fire_ (Doreen King, )

Feeling awed and very small, Kenshin slipped the ring onto the littlest finger of his left hand, where it fit.

The butterfly was sealed between two glass plates, wings a foot wide, a satiny mahogany color with delicate traces of pristine white and rich gold. Kenshin could hardly believe it was real.

The lullaby was a handwritten score, written in black ink on yellowed parchment. The paper had been laminated, but it had obviously been well-used and well-loved before that. Creases, small smudges and nicks marked the pages. Kenshin traced his fingers over the marks. They were proof that Tomoe had lived, that she had been happy.

The journal he set aside to read later; he knew already that experience was going to be an emotional laundry mangle. But the video….

Paper-wrapped, the slender case took only a moment to open. The cover was blank black plastic with only two words on the side: _The Butterfly_.

Kenshin slid the silver disk into the DVD player, his gut clenching in a mix of anticipation and nerves. _Tomoe wanted me to see this,_ he thought. _She wouldn't want to hurt me_.

The video began with a darkened stage, only a single soft, diffused blue light providing gentle illumination. Kenshin leaned forward; Tomoe was wearing a pale costume that looked like a tight dress, coming down just below the crease of her hip and leaving her shoulders bare. Swirling sparkles of silver makeup highlighted her big dark eyes, and her hair was loose. Kenshin found himself remembering the particular silken texture of it, the smell of white plums clinging to his fingers after he ran them through her long black locks.

The music began, very slow and percussively staccato, and Tomoe's movements were choreographed to each beat. Entranced by the primal, graceful sweeps of her body, Kenshin couldn't help comparing this vital, passionately beautiful woman with the milkweed-fluff husk she became before she slipped away. It hurt.

She moved faster as the tempo increased, dancing more powerful, lightning and poetry and every wild thing. Kenshin felt his mouth go dry as she threw her head back, an expression of elated abandon on her face. He'd _never_ seen her that happy.

After the climax she slowed, soft and fragile, until she came to rest with her face hidden between her arms as if making an offering to a pagan god. For three drawn out heartbeats she lay in adoring worship of unknown deity, and then the lights went out.

Kenshin stared at the screen, utterly drained. There was a raw ache in his stomach and he took a shuddery breath, letting it out in a long huff.

Suddenly the apartment felt too small, the collar and tie of his suit too constricting. He stood and headed for the balcony, shedding suit jacket and cravat as he went. Outside it was raining now in earnest, great cold drops pounding out of the sky in a cheerless gray sheet. Kenshin didn't care. He pushed the French doors open with both hands and cold water instantly soaked him, plastering clothes and hair to his skin. Shivering, he gripped the carved balcony rail, staring out over the grounds.

Gardens and orchards had been transformed by the storm. The half-twilight induced by the heavy cloud cover leached color from the landscape, turning greens and pinks and yellows to shades of misty gray. Kenshin felt water trickling down his spine and shuddered.

_It's like me,_ he realized. _You take away the sun and there's nothing worth living for. It's so ugly…._

The rain was getting heavier. Long streams of water hissed angrily as they became waterfalls between the balcony's balustrades, and hard drops struck with such force that they actually stung Kenshin's exposed face and hands.

The physical discomfort was a welcome distraction; each raindrop was another hurting thought that he didn't have to think, each sting another memory he didn't have to relive—

Lightning flashed across the sky, followed momentarily by a looming crack of thunder. For a few minutes he stood, just watching the incredible lightshow.

Then the door clicked. He was no longer alone.

Kenshin's shoulders tensed, and he made a determined effort to ignore whomever it was intruding on his private grief.

"Good God, Himura!" Aoshi's voice was raised in irritation. "It's lightning out. Come inside before you get fried."

"I d-don't c-care." He hadn't even realized his teeth were chattering until he tried to speak.

"_I_ do, you ungrateful brat," Aoshi snapped. He stalked over and gripped Kenshin's arm, pulling him back toward the doors. "Tomoe would have killed me if you caught pneumonia."

Her name, so casually spoken, sent a jolt through him. Kenshin had to fight the sudden urge to turn, snap Aoshi's wrist, and slam a fist into his face. As always the feeling was frightening. He wasn't a violent person. He _wasn't_!

The felling was ultimately also futile. Aoshi was nearly six feet tall, towering over Kenshin's five three, ninety-six pound frame. He could probably manhandle Kenshin with very little effort.

Aoshi let him go and shut and locked the patio door. "Get some dry clothes on before you get sick. _Maledetto idiota_."

His clothes _were_ cold and sodden, Kenshin realized, and he was shivering.

The jeans and sweatshirt he put on in place of the soaked tux felt cool against his damp skin. He pulled his hair out of the tie and let it fall loose around his shoulders; it was going to drive him nuts, but he knew from experience that unless he left it down it wouldn't dry completely for days.

A bottle of steaming _sake_ sat on the table with two glasses. Kenshin sat across from Aoshi and asked, "Do you people ever s-stop drinking?"

The shivering stutter detracted a bit from the cutting effect.

"Are you going to deny that you're freezing?" Aoshi asked, pouring two tumblerfulls of warm liquor. Kenshin picked up the glass and knocked it back quickly, ignoring the coppery taste that coated his tongue. Immediately a warmth spread from his abdomen—along with a cramp from his empty stomach. Kenshin set the glass down as Aoshi sipped his _sake_ more sedately. He suddenly hated the older boy for his icy calm, for having a living sweetheart. It wasn't _fair_—Misao wasn't perfect, maybe, but she was alive.

"It's alright to miss her," Aoshi said, apparently out of the blue. "It's natural to grieve for her and want her back. But she'd be furious if she could see—"

"Shut up!" Kenshin hissed, and suddenly the seething red _thing_ that had been lingering in his chest was suddenly out of control, like scarlet lightning. "What do you know about it-!"

"I'm not finished." Aoshi remained perfectly calm, a cool contrast to Kenshin's heat. "Tomoe would be disappointed if she could see you now. How do you think it would make her feel if she saw you hurting yourself, making yourself sick? It'd kill her. You're being unspeakable selfish; other people are hurting too."

"She was my _wife_, you—"

"I'm not belittling your claim," Aoshi cut in. "But she was my best friend, and like a daughter to Hiko-_san_. Others thought of her as a sister." Kenshin flinched at the last word, remembering glittering eyes behind a pair of round sunglasses. "We all understand where you're coming from."

Something clicked in Kenshin's head. "You wrote her lullaby, didn't you?"

Aoshi's eyes glittered with leashed emotion. "Yes. And now I'm writing her requiem."

* * *

Aoshi's hands shook as he shut the door to Himura's room, successfully resisting the urge to slam it. Usually he had better control of his emotions, but seeing Himura like that…

It had been an ugly shock, seeing the younger man's depression and pessimism, and probably what had brought on his out-of-character outbursts. Aoshi, against all logical training and experience, had expected the same idealistic _rurouni_ from the Meiji Era grinning cluelessly at him. In a naïve way, he looked up to Himura as a man who had quelled his own demons and had some wisdom to share on the subject. Certainly wiser than Aoshi, anyway.

He paused just to breathe, trying to find some kind of balance. He was still grieving for Tomoe himself, and Himura's distress grated on raw nerves. His head hurt, and he realized that other than the meals at the wake, he hadn't eaten much today.

What he really wanted to do was go meditate for a while, lose himself in the peace and quiet of his own mind.

"But Misao needs me," he muttered. The hyperactive girl was devastated by the loss of her 'big sister' and clinging to Aoshi like he was some kind of lifeline.

He padded silently down the hall and peered into Misao's room. She was sitting disconsolately at her dining room table eating from a gallon-sized tub of ice cream with a spoon. Aoshi shook his head and entered without knocking.

As always, Misao had a preternatural awareness of his presence; Sano called it her 'Shinomori detector'. Aoshi was an expert at concealment, literally a professional: he could mask his _ki_, make no sound, blend seamlessly into his surroundings, and even hold his breath. None of it mattered. Misao always knew where he was.

She turned a mournful, tear-ravaged face up to him. With her mascara smeared into raccoon eyes and her blush streaked over her cheeks, she looked practically comical. "Hey," she sniffed.

Aoshi made an impatient noise and went to her bathroom, digging through her hodgepodge of cosmetics until he found a makeup removal cloth, a jar of Vaseline, and a handful of cotton balls. He returned and presented the items to her expectantly.

With a watery chuckle, Misao took the supplies and set to fixing her face. "I guess that's your subtle way of telling me I look like a mess, right?" she said, voice slightly muffled by her hands.

The ice cream's condensation was beginning to make a puddle on the varnish of the table. Aoshi picked it up, raising an involuntary eyebrow at the amount consumed. Where did she _put_ it all?

Misao nodded sagely as he snapped the lid back on the container and put it in the freezer. "I wasn't really hungry, anyway."

Aoshi went to the couch and brushed the clutter off the cushions. A moment later Misao joined him, plunking herself down in his lap and laying her head on his chest, arranging his arms around herself. Securely cradled in the circle of his body, she let out a contented sigh and relaxed. For a few minutes the only sound was of the clock ticking. Aoshi let the quiet stretch comfortably as Misao's breathing evened and deepened, and she yawned once or twice; he was of the opinion that his girlfriend didn't get enough quiet time to calm and relax her energies. He doubted she slept more than five or six hours a night.

"You really miss her, don't you?" Aoshi asked. It was a deliberate attempt to draw her out; Misao needed to talk out her feelings or they would fester.

She sniffled against his chest. "She was like my big sister, you know? We'd make cookies together, and she'd show me stuff. She was always so nice, taking care of me when I was little. You remember that time I got the flu? And p-poor Himura…."

His arms tightened around her slim frame. "Himura's going to be fine. He's suffering, but… it may be better this way. At least they didn't have too much time to bond."

Misao came up off his chest to glare at him. "You could _look_ at them and tell they were close. I mean, the way he looked at her, the way he took care of her, the way he read to her! How can you say they didn't _bond_?"

Arms tightening further, Aoshi asked, "Would it be harder to lose someone after a week, or a few years?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Misao wailed. "Don't argue. Just hold me, okay?"

Falling silent, Aoshi gently rubbed her neck. Misao gave a few sobbing hiccoughs, but they were without much energy. "I'm tired," she said listlessly. "How's Kaoru doing? Is she okay? I know she was mad at Hiko-_san_. Like, really mad."

"I think if Hiko-_san_ wants to keep certain essential anatomy he'd best stay well away from her _bokken_." Aoshi said dryly.

Misao gave a watery giggle. "S'what I'd do if anybody tried to keep me away from _you_," she said. "I don't get why Hiko-_san_ is keeping them apart."

"Better an irate Kamiya than a suicidal Himura," Aoshi said clinically.

Misao stiffened. "You don't think he would…"

"No." he didn't mention the half-hour checks Hiko-_san_ had insisted they perform against that very possibility.

Speaking of which… "I have to go," he said, gently disentangling himself. "Why don't you have a nap, and then we'll have dinner together?"

A smile bloomed on her face. "Okay. Tuck me in?"

Aoshi rolled his eyes but did as she asked. Carrying her bridal-style to the bedroom—a laughably easy feat, she was so light—he cleared the debris from her bed and laid her on her messy sheets. It took only a moment to smooth her comforter and tuck it up under her chin.

"Sleep well." He said, lingering a moment in the doorway.

"Love you," she murmured sleepily.

Aoshi gently closed the door.


	11. Fools Because of Their Transgression

_Fools because of their transgression, and because of their iniquities, are afflicted. Their soul abhorreth all manner of meat; and they draw near to the gates of death._ -Psalms 107: 17-18, KJV

* * *

Sano watched as Kaoru paced. She'd had _another_ fight with Hiko, and was venting her irritation with motion. Yahiko—who still preferred to be called Daniel—watched her anxiously. Sano smirked. The ten year old might not have any conscious memories of his _kendo shihandai_ from his previous life, but from the moment he had come to Hohenzollern he had trusted her implicitly and stuck to her like glue. Her agitation now was upsetting him more than he wanted to let on.

"Quit grinning!" Kaoru snapped, turning a dark glare on him; if looks could kill Sano would have been six feet under and pushing up daisies.

"Calm down, Jou-_chan_," Sano said laconically. "You're scaring Danny."

Daniel turned his own twin Glare of Doom on Sano. "Would you just shut up? You're making her mad."

Sano opened his mouth—teasing these two was just _fun_—but the door opened, cutting him off.

Aoshi slipped in, closing the door softly behind him. "Sanosuke, do you have the key to Himura's door? It's locked, and it is my turn to check on him."

Casual, hands in his pockets, Sano stood. "Key's downstairs in Hiko's office. I'll take care of it."

"Fine," Aoshi said. "Call me if you need anything."

Whistling, Sano tossed a two-fingered salute over his shoulder. "Got it."

It was fairly obvious the household was in mourning, Sano thought. All the rooms were very dark, and the absence of Beth's ringing contralto made the halls seem drafty, dark and empty. He stole like a thief into the main office downstairs and lifted the key off its hook.

_Wonder why Kenshin locked his door?_ Sano thought. _Unless it's some kind of subtle hint that he's sick of us bugging him…._

Maybe it was the long falling shadows of encroaching evening, brought on early by the storm, or maybe the eerie, oppressive quiet, but unease was rolling in Sano's stomach. _Or maybe he's done something drastic_.

No. Not Kenshin. Suicide might happen to other people, but not to Kenshin. Not to the man who had saved Sano from himself, and so many others besides. Never.

Still, his footsteps quickened.

It took only a moment to jimmy the key in the lock; the door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. Sano breathed a sigh of relief. There was an empty bottle of booze on the table with a couple of glasses, but no redheaded body on the floor, no bloody razors falling from limp hands. The whiskey, in his opinion, was perfectly normal, even a healthy response to drowning Kenshin's kind of misery.

"Kenshin?" His voice was flat on the still, dead air. "You okay?"

There was no answer. Maybe he was asleep.

Sano peered into the bedroom. The bed was smooth and unrumpled, without the telltale oblong bulge of a sleeping body. Apprehension coiled in his gut. _Something isn't right._

He headed for the bathroom, where a bar of light was creeping out from under the door. The bar depressed under his hand, and Sano flung the door open.

For half an instant the lights and white tile dazzled him; then the saw the figure slumped against the wall.

"Dammit!" Sano fell to his knees beside the unconscious boy. "Kenshin, talk to me!"

Kenshin was sprawled on the floor, blood dripping down his cheek from a wound on his temple and soaking into the bandage over the stitches Hiko had done the day before yesterday. He was half-propped against the side of the bathtub, and entirely unresponsive.

"No no no-!" Gingerly, Sano tilted his best friend's head into a less kinked position, and went for the cell phone in his back pocket. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of a pill bottle laying sideways on the floor. Heart clenched with dread, Sano checked the bottle. It was the scrip for the sleeping pills Hiko had given him—and it was almost empty.

"Oh…" he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. _Kenshin, you wouldn't. Not that._

But he had.

Suddenly spurred to action, Sano jumped to his feet and bolted out into the hall. "Aoshi!" he yelled. "Shit, Aoshi, I need you _now_!"

The _ninja_ skidded in a moment later, breathing even but hair in wild disarray. "What is it?" he snapped.

"It's Kenshin," Sano said, his voice nearly breaking. "We need Hiko and Beth—"

"What happened?" Aoshi asked, eyes scanning the room with predatory intent.

"He took too many pills," Sano said haltingly. "His breathing's not right."

"He OD'ed?" Aoshi swore. "Stay with him and be ready to start CPR. I'll get Hiko."

Sano sprinted back to the bathroom. Kenshin looked pale under the bright fluorescent lights; his breathing was slow and shallow.

Carefully, Sano picked up Kenshin off the floor and moved him to the bed. Hiko was going to need room to work. The redhead's skin was frighteningly clammy and cold. Sano shuddered and grabbed an afghan, intending to cover him.

The door actually bounced off the wall as Hiko stormed in, his face stern and terrible as a thundercloud; an almost feral light burned in his eyes as he looked down on Kenshin, black gaze weighing, assessing, judging. Sano had the sudden irrational urge to hide. _He _didn't want to be in Kenshin's shoes when Kenshin woke up!

"Beth, I need IV supplies. You get an NG dropped. Aoshi, go get the ICU set up with Megumi. Sano, you get Kaoru."

Sano hesitated. "But—you said…"

"GO!" Hiko roared.

Sano turned and fled.

* * *

_Fury_ did not even begin to cover the depth of his seething, volcanic anger, Hiko decided as he threaded the catheter into Kenshin's wrist vein. A quick leak of dark blood from the catheter indicated the IV was good.

His hands did not shake as they attached the tubing, though it felt as though they should. The last time he'd been so upset with Kenshin was when an idealistic, half-trained swordsman had left his guidance for the Ishin Shishi.

Beth pressed a bag into his hands. "It's the flumanzenil," she said. "A hundred seventy-five per hour, right?"

"Two hundred mics per minute," Hiko confirmed.

_What a cowardly thing to do_, he thought as Beth dropped the NG tube. _Can't say I didn't anticipate it, though…_

"Doctor?" Beth said, glancing up. "He's been drinking—I can smell it."

Hiko groaned. "Just what we need. Doesn't Megumi have that ICU ready yet?"

"Give her time." Beth said absently, using a chemstrip to test the pH of the fluid she'd withdrawn from the NG. "It's barely been five minutes."

"Do we have placement?" Hiko asked.

"We do," Beth said. "—And there's Aoshi with the gurney!"

Aoshi was a little out of breath from pushing the heavy frame at a dead run by himself. "Ready?" He panted.

"Ready," Hiko confirmed. It took him only a moment to shift Kenshin from his bed to the gurney. For the first time, Hiko felt a stab of uneasy fear.

_He's too underweight. Alcohol and sleeping pills—God, boy, I'm _not_ going to let you die!_

"Did you bring oxygen?" Hiko asked Aoshi.

In answer Aoshi handed him the face mask, already hissing with the O2 running.

With Beth pushing the IV pole, Hiko, and Aoshi shoved the gurney into the hall. Hohenzollern's intensive care unit was in another wing and on another floor; they needed to hurry.

Hiko pressed the mask over Kenshin's mouth and nose. The nasogastric tube made it impossible to hold the mask in place with the green elastic band. Doing so forced him to look at Kenshin's face, and he didn't like what he saw. The boy's cheekbones were prominent, his cheeks hollowed. Deep black shadows ringed his eyes, and his pallor was atrocious—it made him look like a vampire, or a wax doll. The effect was eerie.

They were waiting for the elevator when Kaoru came tearing around the corner, Sanosuke hot on her heels. The look of blank terror on her face sent another stab through his heart. Kaoru skidded to a stop beside the gurney, her eyes flickering from the IV to the NG to the mask in Hiko's hand. Her face was almost as pale as Kenshin's. "Is he going to be alright?" she demanded, reaching out to grasp his hand. "What happened?"

"He's going to be fine," Hiko said firmly. "Until your father beats the crap out of him for scaring you."

That remark didn't elicit the giggle he'd hoped for. Kaoru bit her lip and stroked Kenshin's hair.

The elevator arrived and they piled into it, elbows and cords and bed all getting tangled and bumped. The silence was tense and nearly palpable.

Megumi was waiting for them when they arrived at the ICU, telemetry unit in one hand and a suction line in the other. Hiko stopped Kaoru, Sano, and Aoshi at the door.

"You three stay out here," he ordered. "We're going to do nasty, unpleasant things and you don't need to watch."

He slid the door closed in their faces before they could argue.

Beth had a pair of scissors, cutting of Kenshin's pajamas, and Megumi was hooking up the suction so they could pump out his stomach.

Hiko took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's do this."

* * *

Kaoru nibbled nervously on one fingernail, staring with augur-like intensity at the curtained glass door of Kenshin's room. It had been nearly three hours since Hiko had kicked them out, and she was going stir-crazy.

"It's gonna be fine, Jou-chan." Sano reassured her for the eighth or ninth time. "Hiko's a great doctor, he's never lost a patient. Kenshin's gonna be fine."

"You don't know that," Kaoru said, switching her teeth from middle to ring finger. "What if something happens? What if-"

"Nothing's gonna happen, stupid." Daniel said. His tone was irritated, but his eyes betrayed worry. "Jerk probably couldn't kill himself if he wanted to."

_Kill himself_. The words were like a punch to the gut, but the pain was quickly replaced by anger; if Uncle Seijuro had only let her _see_ Kenshin, let her talk to him and hold him and soothe his grief, none of this would have happened!

Her musings were interrupted by a gurgling growl from Sano's stomach. Daniel shot him _one of those looks_, but Kaoru giggled.

"Go get something to eat," Kaoru said, giving him a gentle shove. "You can't starve yourself for my sake."

"Are you sure?" Sano asked, half-standing. "I mean, I don't want to leave you by yourself."

"I'm fine," Kaoru said. "Daniel, you go too. You missed dinner, right?"

They all had. "Yeah," Daniel said. But he lingered for a moment. "You gonna be okay?"

Her heart was touched by the rough affection. "I'm not the one in the ICU. Go eat."

Daniel took the words at face value. "Okay. I've got my phone on if you need me."

Sano rubbed the younger boy's head in a brotherly noogie. "C'mon, Danny. We'll heat up some leftovers and bring them back for the Missy."

"I'm not a kid, you-!"

The sounds of the scuffle faded down the hall.

Kaoru returned frankly to destroying her fingernails. She wished for some kind of news, other than Megumi or Beth occasionally shouting something incomprehensible through the door. "PVCs, we're going to try to cardiovert!" "O2 sat in the seventies, we're switching to a nonrebreather!" "Finally got a good rhythm, but rate's still in the forties." Was a simple 'better' or 'not so good' too difficult for medically-minded people?

To distract herself, Kaoru got up and began to pace the long tile hall. The intensive care unit at Hohenzollern was the envy of the European medical community: it contained four negative-pressure self-contained bays, each capable of becoming an operating room in a pinch. The streamlined, top-of-the-line equipment was always being updated. She knew that Kenshin was receiving the best of care from a brilliant doctor and an excellent nurse, but she still worried.

Finally the door slid open. Megumi gave her a foxy wink, and Beth came out behind her rubbing alcohol foam on her hands. There was a tired, hopeful smile on her face.

"Can I see him?" Kaoru asked. She could hear the edge of desperation in her voice and decided she didn't care.

"Yes," Beth said. "He's doing much better. But don't try to wake him up—he needs to rest."

Kaoru nodded vigorously, ponytail bobbing. "I won't bother him, I promise."

"Go on, then." Beth said.

Kaoru entered the bay hesitantly. It was dim, and very quiet. A monitor set into the wall displayed Kenshin's heartbeat in spiky lines, while another recorded his blood pressure, temperature, and the number of breaths he took each minute, along with other data Kaoru couldn't even begin to decipher. He was deeply asleep, flat on his back in the bed.

"How is he?" Kaoru whispered, afraid to break the silence.

"Idiot almost died," Uncle Seijuro said. He wasn't whispering, but his voice was subdued. "He threw his heart into an arrhythmia and it very nearly stopped beating. I'm going to strip his hide for that."

Kaoru smiled slightly. The threat had no heat, and she knew that her cantankerous adopted uncle was merely worried about the boy who was, in all the ways that mattered, a son to him. She got another chair from the line along the wall and sat opposite Hiko, taking Kenshin's hand between both of hers. "He's so cold…."

"His heart is still weak," Hiko said. "I've started him on digoxin, but…" he shook his head. "He's got a long way to go before he's out of the woods."

Kaoru nodded quietly. The familiar, scarred face was mostly obscured by the oxygen mask and bandages, on his cheek and his head. An IV ran into each arm, one with yellowish antibiotics and the other ran clear with fluids. He was piled beneath two quilts and an electric blanket.

"I'm not going to stay away after this," Kaoru finally said. "He needs me." She had been preparing for this confrontation for hours, and so was surprised when Uncle Seijuro merely said,

"Yes. You're right."

That easy agreement, Kaoru knew, was all the apology she was going to get.

"I'll stay with him for a while, if you need a break," Kaoru offered—her way of saying she forgave him.

Uncle Seijuro shook his head. "I want to keep an eye on his EKG for a while. Besides…." His large hand gently smoothed red bangs away from Kenshin's forehead in a seemingly involuntary motion. He didn't finish the thought, but Kaoru understood.

* * *

Consciousness was a long, slow uphill battle; Kenshin was so tired, but he couldn't seem to go back to sleep. His stomach hurt….

Nose itching, he reached up to scratch, but there was something on his face. Kenshin pushed at it until it came off and rubbed his nose and mouth. Another cramp seized his abdomen, and he sat up, arms cradling his stomach. Oh _God_ it hurt-!

Sudden nausea hit him, and he couldn't breathe. Dry heaves wracked his frame, the spasms seizing his stomach and throat all the more painful for the fact that nothing was coming up, and there was beginning to be a distressing grayness at the corners of his vision.

A broad, strong arm slipped around his shoulders, and someone rubbed his back. A deep voice said, "Hey, try to calm down. Breathe, Kenshin… relax. That's it."

As the spasms subsided into simple shaking, a broad tanned hand put something over his nose and mouth—Kenshin now recognized an oxygen mask. "Take a few deep breaths."

Kenshin obeyed, inhaling in jerky spurts. Immediately the tight feeling in his chest eased. The strong arm lowered him back onto the bed, and his Master's face swam into view. Shishou did _not_ look pleased.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gruffly.

"Been better," Kenshin rasped. Why was his throat so sore?

A smirk crossed Shishou's mouth. "Yes, I can imagine. Be a little more specific."

"My stomach hurts," Kenshin said, too tired to be irritated with his master's taunting.

"Do you feel dizzy?" Shishou asked, taking Kenshin's wrist between two fingers to take his pulse.

"Only when I sit up," Kenshin answered truthfully.

"When is your birthday?"

"What?"

"Answer the question."

"June fourteenth. Why?"

"Just checking your memory," Shishou said. "Now, the real question is, do you remember what landed you here in the first place?"

"I don't even know where I am…" Kenshin said. A note of panic entered his voice as soon as he realized exactly what sort of room he was in. "This is a hospital!"

Shishou put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back against the pillows. "Chill, will you? Your heart's stressed enough as it is. You're still at Hohenzollern, just in the intensive care unit. You OD'ed. Don't you remember?"

"OD'ed?" Kenshin was puzzled, because he _didn't_ remember. "What's that…?"

His master's face was inscrutable as he said, "Sano found you passed out on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of sleeping pills. Are you telling me you didn't try to kill yourself?"

Memory trickled back. "I couldn't sleep," Kenshin said slowly. "Aoshi brought the _sake_, and then I had half a bottle of whiskey, but it didn't help…"

When he spoke, Shishou's voice was tight. "So you took an entire _bottle _of Restoril?"

"You told me I could take an extra if the first one didn't help!" Kenshin said defensively. "And I guess I was a little drunk-"

"I guess you were!" the words were cutting, but there was a subtle relaxation of the tension in Shishou's neck and shoulders. "So it wasn't a suicide attempt."

Horror dawned on Kenshin's features. "No… I wouldn't!" the vehement denial seemed out of proportion with the accusation. "I AM NOT CRAZY!"

Shishou cuffed him gently upside the head. "Would you quite freaking out? It's doing bad things to your heart. I _believe_ you, _baka_."

Trying not to hyperventilate, Kenshin sat back and consciously loosened his fists.

"What's your problem with hospitals, anyway?" Shishou asked, making idle conversation as he fiddled with the IV pump.

Kenshin took a moment before answering. "I've been in and out of psychiatric rehab facilities since I was eight years old. You tell me how much fun that is." _No privacy… not to mention the people who really ARE crazy… and wondering in the back of my head if I really was losing my mind. Yeah. It's give anybody a complex._

In a quick bid to change the subject Kenshin cleared his throat and said, "So… am I really sick?"

"You threw your heart out of whack and your electrolytes are crap," Shishou said. "It'll probably be a few days before you can get out of here."

Kenshin sagged visibly. "Are you sure?"

"Very," Shishou said with great finality. "And you'll have to take it easy for several weeks after. You've set your training back for _months_."

"I'm sorry." Kenshin said, staring at his hands. _Great. Now I've disappointed someone else…._

"No guilt tripping," Shishou ordered, with another gentle smack on the head. "Negative emotion will only make you sicker. Now, we have one more thing we need to discuss."

Kenshin got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What?" he asked.

"Legally, I am required to inform your mother of your illness," Shishou said seriously. "The question is whether you want her to come _here_."

"What? No!" Kenshin exclaimed. "No way I want her here."

Shishou seemed surprised. "Why not?"

"She hovers," Kenshin said distastefully. "She's usually pretty cool, but when I get sick…" he shook his head, and immediately regretted it when the motion sent a wave of vertigo through him. "She turns into a spastic panic-attack mother hen."

"Very well, I'll downplay it."

"…Thanks." That had been the last thing Kenshin expected.

Shishou stood. "Get some rest. You can have visitors tomorrow."

"Alright." The words were slurred, and his eyes were already drifting closed. How could he already be so sleepy…?

Shishou closed the door to the sound of soft, slow breathing.


	12. So Stand and Watch it Burn

_"The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!_

_"We've passed the point of no return..." The Point of No Return, _from Andrew Lloyd Webber's ___Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

"—no, Miss Westfield, it was an accident. Please calm down, ma'am, he's not hurt. No, it won't be necessary for you to come over. No, he hasn't asked for you…." _Quite the opposite, in fact._ "His friends are taking excellent care of him, and he's coping quite well." _With the illness._

Hiko was tempted to hang up on the woman. He could certainly see why Kenshin hadn't wanted her to come to Hohenzollern!

"Yes, of course I'll have him call you. Yes… Yes… no. You too."

He resisted the urge to throw the phone, settling it gently in the cradle instead. Calling Kenshin's mother had been almost as unpleasant an experience as forcing Kenshin to eat this morning. Kaoru was furious that Kenshin hadn't been awake more than a few minutes at a time, and thus in no position for an introduction.

Speaking of which… it had been nearly three hours since he had last checked on his _baka deshi_. Rising, Hiko headed for the ICU.

Rain pattered quietly against the windowpanes. Over the past few hours last night's thunderstorm had died down to a misting rain, and a cold front had moved in. The effect was distinctly depressing.

The ICU was quiet and dark, the rain more audible. Hiko wasn't surprised by the lack of activity; Kenshin had been given twenty-five milligrams of promethazine this morning to help keep his light breakfast down. The medication's secondary effect, after being an anti-emetic, was heavy sedation. Kenshin was most likely lost in dreamland.

Hiko slipped quietly into Kenshin's bay, senses attuned to the sleeping teenager. Immediately he realized that something was wrong. Kenshin was thrashing, his long hair sticking in almost-curls to his cheeks and forehead. Soft little whimpers escaped him occasionally, and his _ki _was a muddle of thorny fear and nauseating guilt.

_Ah. Nightmares._

"Kenshin," Hiko said softly, trying not to startle battle-ready reflexes. "Kenshin, wake up."

If anything, the thrashing got worse.

Hiko sighed and took a deep breath. "Kenshin! He grabbed Kenshin's shoulder and shook him.

He only barely dodged the punch; a knuckle grazed his cheekbone. _Geez, that kid is _fast_!_

But Kenshin was awake now, and he was freaking out.

"Shishou! Did I hurt you? What are you doing here?" A shaking hand scrubbed at his face.

"You're too small to throw a punch for crap," Hiko told him honestly. "Besides, it didn't connect."

"S-sorry," Kenshin said. He was beginning to shake all over.

"What kind of nightmares were you having?" Hiko asked.

"I…" Kenshin looked up at him, gaze wide and shockingly vulnerable.

Hiko rolled his eyes; did the heir of Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_ have to look like such a little lost kitten? He got a bottle of orange juice and thrust it into Kenshin's hands—might as well get some calories in him while he was conscious. "Drink that and pull yourself together."

Obediently Kenshin sipped at the juice. Hiko was pleased to note Kenshin's heart rate going back down to normal.

"Were you dreaming about the Bakumatsu again?" Hiko asked.

"No," Kenshin said. "Tomoe."

And Hiko knew better than to pick at that wound. Kenshin was hurting far too much to even begin to try to force him to talk about Tomoe.

"You should try to go back to sleep, if you can." Hiko said. When he saw the beginnings of panic in Kenshin's eyes, he said, "I'll stay for a few minutes and wake you up if there are any problems."

"Alright," Kenshin said. He laid himself down on his pillows, eyes closed but still stiff as a board, vibrating with tension.

Sentimentality and nostalgia were two emotions that Hiko abhorred, but he couldn't help feeling that Kenshin looked dreadfully lonely. He knew from personal, visceral experience the isolation that went with the stigma they carried. If he hadn't had Hajime growing up….

Well, that was then, and he needed to be mindful of the present.

It was too much to ask for him to hold the boy; it would irreparably damage his pride and Kenshin's. But a hand, just a touch… yes, that would do.

With great care, and no small hesitation, Hiko laid one broad palm on Kenshin's warm, downy head.

Kenshin's eyes flew open, and he came halfway up on one elbow. "Wha-?"

Irritated, and not exactly sure why, Hiko firmly shoved him back down. "Go to sleep," he said gruffly, to hide the catch in his voice. Kenshin's eyes widened further if it were possible, and there was a question in the wide, hurt violet.

"Sleep," Hiko ordered gently, pitching his voice low and soothing, a comfortable rumble.

Slowly—_too slowly_—the weary fear and mistrust faded, and Kenshin's eyes slid closed, the frowning wrinkles smoothed from his brow.

Hiko's gut twisted. That so small a gesture should comfort Kenshin… had no one ever done this for him? Just a single moment of kindness….

He thought about it for a long time, long after Kenshin had fallen asleep.

* * *

A small sound, more felt than heard, was what woke Kenshin. Long, long habit kept him still, one eye cracked to detect any threat without alerting said threat. A nervous tension coiled in his belly and he tried to dismiss it as nighttime jitters, but… it never hurt to be careful.

His heart almost stopped when he spotted a man-sized shadow moving stealthily in the door.

Immediately the _hitokiri_ in him to analyze the situation. The figure wasn't Shishou—it was too short. And it didn't move like a woman, so that ruled out Megumi, Misao, or Beth. It wasn't graceful enough to be Aoshi and too broad to be Sano; Kenshin concluded that it was no one he knew and no one who belonged here. Moreover, it was the middle of the night, and the stranger had failed to announce himself. More than likely a threat, then.

Kenshin held himself very still, hoping against hope that he was wrong. The figure stopped a yard or so from the bed and began to fumble with something in his hands. Kenshin tensed, and his mind raced as he tried to find something that he could use as a weapon—he wasn't any good at _jujitsu_, he needed a sword, or at least a pole-!

In a hospital room designed for safety, however, there was little in the way of defense.

_IV pole, no, too light and the balance is all wrong—monitors are all bolted to the wall—oxygen mask won't do any damage, no shoes—_

The fumbling stopped, and something was gripped in the right hand. A rough, gravelly voice whispered, "This is for Shishio-_sama_."

"_No!_" Kenshin lashed out, both feet catching his shadowy assailant in the diaphragm. The man grunted but didn't drop whatever was in his hand.

Kenshin rolled out of bed as fast as he could, ignoring the pull and burn in his arms and chest as IVs came loose and lines pulled free. Monitors began to blink and beep as electrodes detached from his body, and one set up a high-pitched wail. The man cursed and grabbed for him again.

_Weapon weapon weapon!_ Kenshin's instincts screamed at him. His heart pounded and he could barely breathe; black spots danced in from of his eyes that had nothing to do with the lack of light.

He staggered, and the man grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back to the point of pain. A small sting pierced his upper arm and Kenshin thought frantically, _It's poisoned!_

An instant later his eyes fell on his uneaten dinner, left from several hours ago.

_A steak knife was sitting next to the plate!_

Nearly sobbing with pain and lack of air, Kenshin lunged for the knife and turned. The would-be murderer gave a gurgling scream as the mostly dull, serrated knife bit into his bowels. Instinct driving him entirely now, Kenshin dragged the knife across the belly, blood and foul-smelling fluid pouring over his hands. The man's hands dropped nervelessly from Kenshin's shoulders. Now free, he turned the rest of the way and ruthlessly shoved the steak knife into the man's throat. It caught—perhaps on cartilage—and Kenshin used his other hand to push it through. Blood sprayed his face and throat.

The assailant dropped to the floor without another sound.

The knife fell from Kenshin's fingers as he realized what he'd done.

"No… Oh God, please, no…"

He heard footsteps running, voices calling, but he couldn't answer them. The unreal scene of blood and corpse was fading in and out.

The overhead light snapped on, and Kenshin threw up a hand to shield his eyes. Shishou was standing in the door, wearing a pair of pajamas and carrying a drawn Wintermoon. The detached part of Kenshin's brain giggled. Shishou wearing pajamas? It shouldn't have been funny, but it was.

"Sanders." Shishou said, his eyes widening ever-so-slightly as his only sign of surprise. "Kenshin, what happened?"

Kenshin looked down at his victim. He recognized the man now—George Sanders, Shishou's chauffeur.

"He tried to kill me," Kenshin said. His voice sounded distant over the ringing in his ears. "Some kind of poison…."

Pulling on a medical glove, Shishou reached down and picked up the fallen syringe and vial. "Insulin," he said, reading the label. "And this much _would_ have killed you." He put the evidence on the counter by the sink and sheathed Wintermoon at the small of his back. "Kenshin, are you alright?"

"M'fine," Kenshin said. "Not like I haven't done it before." He swayed and caught his balance on the bed rail. "Need to clean my sword, though. Where…?"

"You're in shock," Shishou said. He stepped over the body and put an arm around Kenshin's shoulders. "Come one, you need some glucose to counteract that insulin. Looks like he did manage to give you some."

"Don't touch me!" Kenshin tried to pull away. "I'm bloody-"

"Like I give a damn," Shishou snarled. He guided Kenshin out of the room and onto a bench. "Sit still, and as you value your life, _do not_ move!"

Kenshin sat, staring blankly into space. _What have I done? I _killed _him. What… what am I going to do?_

Vaguely he heard Shishou barking orders into a phone. He caught a word here and there: "inform Interpol and the local police… get Jacob…send Megumi… morgue…"

A moment later Shishou was kneeling beside him with a needle and syringe. "A quick shot," he said, cleaning Kenshin's wrist with a swab of alcohol. "This ought to make you feel a good deal better."

After a quick sting in his wrist, Kenshin's vision cleared and the hallway swam into sharp focus. Shishou stood and put the needle in a sharps container.

"Let's go get you cleaned up and we'll talk," Shishou said. "Take it slow and steady, don't rush."

Kenshin felt like he was sleepwalking. His master's arm around his shoulders felt like the only thing keeping him upright. He didn't care where he was going, only concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

_I killed him—people are trying to kill _me_—am I going to jail? Are they going to send me back to a psych hospital? What's going to happen to me?_

"Hey." Shishou's voice penetrated the haze. "I've got the shower running. Let's get the blood off you."

Mechanically Kenshin walked where he was led. Shishou tipped his head up, and Kenshin did his best to focus on his master's face. "I'm giving you ten minutes to shower," he said bluntly. "After that I'm going to assume something's wrong and come in after you. Understood?"

He nodded. Shishou pushed him into the bathroom and closed the door. Kenshin realized he didn't recognize the huge, white-tiled bathroom, and decided he didn't care. He stripped off the blood- and fluid-crusted hospital PJs and stepped under the running water.

It was a little too hot, stinging his skin and turning it red, but he didn't adjust it. Scalding water would remove the blood better.

And the blood was _everywhere_: under his nails, in his hair, spattered on his arms. So much blood; it left feathery pink spirals in the bottom of the drain. He continued to scrub even after the obvious signs of gore were gone. He could still smell it.

Finally, Kenshin got out and put a towel around his waist and another on his dripping head turban-style. His own small wounds on the inside of his elbow and the back of his hand where the IVs came out were still bleeding in a slow, steady drip, but he ignored it, moving instead to the sink to re-wash his hands. He didn't want any trace of Sander's blood left on his skin.

"Kenshin?" Shishou's voice was slightly muffled through the closed door.

"I'm fine!" Kenshin called back. He scrubbed harder at his palm. It _had_ to come off.

The door opened. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just getting the blood off," Kenshin explained.

Shishou reached over and turned off the water, taking Kenshin's fragile wrist in his large hand. "It's clean." He said. "And you need a bandage on his." He indicated Kenshin's bleeding inner elbow.

"But… the blood…"

Shishou stopped. "Kenshin, look at your hands. There is no blood."

Finally, Kenshin nodded.

The room into which Shishou led him was a large suite, grand and luxurious. It was, Kenshin realized, his master's living quarters.

After fixing a pressure bandage on each of Kenshin's IV sites, Shishou thrust a heavy terrycloth robe at him. "Here. Put this on. You're going to freeze to death, otherwise."

Kenshin put the robe on and let the towel drop out from under it, then folded the towel in neat thirds and set it aside. He sat in the chair Shishou indicated with weak, shaky knees.

"Tell me what happened," Shishou said, completely businesslike. Kenshin was grateful for that tone; he thought sympathy would have undone him completely.

"I was asleep," Kenshin began. "I heard—I heard Sanders come in. He said, 'This is for Shishio.'"

Shishou sucked in a breath.

"Who's Shishio?" Kenshin asked. The name was familiar, on the tip of his tongue.

"A very bad player in a complicated game," Shishou said enigmatically. "So there was a struggle?"

"Yeah," Kenshin said. "He grabbed my arm, and I…"

He knew what he had done. He _knew_. But he couldn't say it. To admit it would make it real, would make him a murderer once again, and then he'd go crazy for real.

"You killed him," Shishou said, soft but firm.

Kenshin drew his feet up under himself and looked away. "I didn't mean to."

"Perhaps not consciously, but-"

"No!" Kenshin didn't think he could bear it if his own master dubbed him a cold-blooded killer. "No, I didn't _want_ to kill him! I never wanted to kill anyone!" His chest felt tight and he gasped, trying to get enough air. "I don't want to h-hurt anyone, I-I _don't_, but they won't leave me alone, I've killed everyone-"

"Why?" Shishou asked.

"WHY?" Kenshin felt an inexplicable, unfamiliar anger bubbling up in his chest. Anger was good; anger didn't hurt. "I'm a murderer! I've killed hundreds of people, my whole family died because of me, I killed my w-wife, I would've killed you too if I hadn't left, even Sakura-_san_! She could have escaped, I know she could have! I'm tired. I want it all to _stop_!"

He couldn't remember standing, but he was on his feet, fists balled, body tight as a drawn bow.

"Tomoe's death was not your fault," Shishou said slowly, "And Sanders' death was not your responsibility." Each word carried the punch of a horse's kick. "You have killed, yes, but so have I. So has Aoshi. You don't seem to think that we deserve punishment."

_Shishou doesn't get it,_ Kenshin realized. "I wasn't just an assassin for the Ishin Shishi," Kenshin said coldly. "I had to eliminate witnesses as well. Innocent people. I've killed women, I've maimed thousands of men, I've killed _children_-"

His voice broke, and he turned his head away, not wanting Shishou to see. Maybe it had only been one woman, and an accident; maybe it had only been one child, a young man maybe two years younger than himself who came at him with a naked blade. It still _hurt._

Shishou put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You're not the only person who carries guilt," he said. "But you have to let it go. There are people who love you, and they want you to be happy."

"Stop!" Kenshin slugged him; he couldn't help it. "I can't hurt anyone else!" Another punch. "I can't—I can't lose anyone else!" Another punch; Shishou didn't even flinch. "I can't…"

Shishou caught his hands in a painless, unbreakable grip, and Kenshin's breath hitched in a sob. Before he knew what was happening, he was falling apart on his master's chest while Shishou's hands rested comfortingly on his back and head.

"S-sorry… I'm _sorry_, Shishou, I never wanted to hurt anybody… and I m-miss her so so much-" Kenshin gasped, lightheaded with the inability to take a deep, full breath.

"No one's angry with you, Ken-ch'en." Shishou said. Kenshin sucked in a hurt breath at the long-unused nickname. "You need to calm down, now, before you pass out. Shh…"

With a few last hiccupping sobs, Kenshin pulled away, swiping at his eyes. An embarrassed flush crept from his neck to his hairline. "Sorry, Master… I got your sh-shirt wet." A blink. "You changed?"

"I don't want to discuss the fate of one of my students in my pajamas with a police inspector," Shishou said dryly. "He already tends to think he can dictate to me."

Panic fluttered in Kenshin's stomach. "They're already here?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to say a word to them until my lawyer gets here," Shishou said firmly. "And you don't have to talk to anyone unless I say so—one of the few perks of being a mentally incompetent minor."

"M'not incompetent," Kenshin huffed.

Shishou gave him an amused, knowing look. "It doesn't matter what the reality is. Would you rather be competent and in jail or incompetent and free?"

"Do you think they'd lock me up?" Kenshin asked quietly. _That month at Rosewood…I never want to go back there._

"Not in a jail, but definitely in a juvenile psychiatric center," Shishou said. "At least, they may _try_. I'm certain we can call it justifiable homicide and keep them from prosecuting."

"Oh." Kenshin ducked his head.

Shishou sighed and rolled his eyes. "Okay, in the meantime, you and I are going to discuss some things."

Wincing as he sat on the edge of his chair, Kenshin remembered that Shishou's 'discussions' usually focused on Kenshin's own faults and lack of intelligence. "What are we going to 'discuss', Master?"

"Oh, all kinds of things." Shishou said with a malicious grin. "Do you remember the talk we had, a few weeks after your training began?"

Oh, yeah… he'd never forget _that_ talk. "Yes, Shishou."

He's been eight years old and scared of his own shadow when Hiko had taken him in, depressed and traumatized; he know suspected that his new master had been as wrong-footed as he. After a week of letting his hands and beaten back heal, Shishou had begun teaching him the basics of Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_.

Kenshin had thrown himself into the demanding work whole heartedly, burying his grief in hard physical labor. He used his training to wear himself out to the point that he fell into his _futon_ at night gray-faced and exhausted. It was the only way to keep crushing memories at bay.

However, the strict regimen failed to keep nightmares away as well. He would rise from his bed as tired as when he dropped into it.

Soon the sleep deprivation began to tell on his strength. He stopped eating—it was too much effort. He neglected rest breaks in favor of extra chores and _katas_. Shishou, of course, noticed.

First, he'd tried giving orders.

"_Kenshin, get in here and eat!"_

"_Kenshin, go to bed!"_

When that hadn't worked, he'd resorted to threats.

"_If you're not in bed by the time I get back from the river, I'll beat you black and blue in practice tomorrow!_"

"_Kenshin, I swear if you miss another meal you'll cook all the food for a year!_"

When even that had failed to improve the self-destructive behaviors, Hiko had taken another tactic.

Kenshin had known he was in trouble when his master had called him into the cabin in the middle of morning _kata_ practice. Kenshin had entered with a heavy heart, sitting in formal _seiza_ across from Shishou, whose face was as easily readable as a river rock.

"Kenshin, what do you think is a swordsman's first weapon?"

The poor young apprentice almost groaned out loud. Shishou's lessons frequently began with a question, and Kenshin had never gotten one right yet.

"Um… his sword?" Kenshin guessed. It seemed like a logical answer.

Shishou sighed. "You're so literal… no. The swordsman's first weapon is his _mind_—otherwise he's just a machine."

Kenshin wasn't sure he did, but he nodded anyway.

"Then what do you think the second weapon is?" Shishou asked, black eyes glittering.

'Sword', again, was the first answer that came to mind, but Kenshin had a feeling that wasn't right. Taking a stab in the dark, he guessed, "Um… his, ah… his training?"

"Close," his master allowed. "Let's try this another way…

"The sword is the literal weapon, yes, but you have to have certain things to _use_ a sword." Seeing the blank look on his apprentice's face, Hiko stifled a groan. "Look, can an idiot use a sword?"

Kenshin gave him a very direct look. "Apparently. After all, I'm a '_baka deshi_'."

A cuff upside the head was Hiko's opinion of _that_. "Think about it! Didn't you have anyone in your village who couldn't do things? Simple things?"

He thought about it and remembered Oji-_san_, the old beggar his mother sometimes fed. "Yes, Shishou."

"Could that person use a sword?"

"No, Shishou."

"That's what I'm talking about," Shishou said. "That's the first weapon. The second weapon, the second thing a swordsman needs to _be a swordsman_, is his body."

Kenshin cocked his head. "Oro?"

Shishou's mouth thinned. "Can you wield a sword without arms? Or legs?" he enunciated carefully.

"I don't think so…" Kenshin said.

Again visibly suppressing homicidal urges, Shishou said, "Right. And just like that, you also can't use a sword and fight well if your body's not in peak condition. You have to eat right, get enough sleep, let your muscles rest and rebuild."

Finally, he had the boy's attention. "Your body is a weapon just like your sword. You wouldn't let your sword become weak and rusty, would you?"

"No," Kenshin said, understanding finally dawning.

After that, they hadn't had any more problems.

"You're neglecting your weapons again," Shishou said. "Some things are going to have to change, starting with the way you take care of yourself."

"What do you mean?" Kenshin asked warily.

"I mean eight hours of sleep a night, at least three square meals a day, and plenty of time to recover before you do anything else harebrained," Shishou said. "It also means that you don't hole up in your room alone all day. Vitamins probably wouldn't hurt, either."

Staring like an idiot, Kenshin repeated, "Vitamins."

"Is that a problem?" Shishou asked.

Kenshin shook his head, still fuddled.

"Well, we won't fight about it tonight." Shishou said dismissively.

A tap on the door interrupted him, and Shishou growled, "What?"

The door opened a crack and Aoshi poked his head in. "Hiko-_san_, Mr. von Kruul is here."

"Excellent," he paused. "Kenshin, do you feel up to meeting with the cop and the lawyer? It can wait if you want."

Rehash the details of a nightmarish event under official scrutiny? Not a snowball's chance in Hell.

"Um, I'd rather not," Kenshin said. He bit his lip.

Shishou cocked his head. "What do you want?"

Kenshin flushed heavily. "It's nothing."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need." Shishou pointed out. "Speak up."

"I just… don't want to be by myself." Kenshin said, red from hairline to chin.

"We can take care of that," Shishou said immediately. He dimmed the lights. "Stay where you are, try to get a little sleep, and I'll send someone along."

oOo

Kenshin thought for sure that there was no way he was going to sleep, but somehow he slipped into a doze. He nearly jumped out of his skin when someone put a hand on his forearm.

"It's okay, Kenshin. It's me. It's Kaoru."

"Kaoru?" he croaked. He _knew_ that name, that voice….

It conjured up images of bloody ribbons, wooden swords, burned food, and callused hands. But no matter how he tried, he couldn't conjure up a face to go with the voice and images.

"You look dead on your feet." Kaoru's voice, again. "Come on, let's go to my room. There's a nice fire going, and Beth was going to send up some soup. C'mon, I won't let you fall."

Kenshin squinted, but the hall was even darker than Shishou's apartment, and he still couldn't see Kaoru. Her face and slim form were in shadow. Her hand, closed around his cold fingers, was very warm.

The door of Kaoru's room opened, flooding the hall with light, throwing her face into sharp relief.

Trembling, Kenshin raised his fingers. "Kaoru…_dono_…?"

She was so _real_, like she'd stepped right out of one of his dreams. Not a single bit of her had changed, from her laughing blue eyes to the little button of her nose, to the soft curve of her cheek that she always lamented was too round. Even her height, just an inch or so below his and the length of her hair, just below her shoulder blades in a ponytail, was exactly as it should be.

The only jarring notes were the pair of dark-washed blue jeans that clung to every line of her hips and legs, and the artfully crumpled white tank-top with a bit of lace at the neckline and hem. Suddenly, he wasn't sure she _was_ real; he wanted to touch her to see, but he was afraid she would dissipate like smoke under his fingertips.

It was like she could sense his thoughts. Kaoru reached up and took his hand in hers, pressing it against her cheek. "It's okay," she said. "It's really going to be okay."

For a moment he just breathed; the smell of her was the same, the vanilla perfume she favored under the scent of white oak and _Kaoru_. Then, very gently, she pulled him into her room.

It was softly lit by the light of a fire on the grate and a few low lamps. A long couch was perched before the fireplace, and it was here that Kaoru led him.

"Get comfortable," she said, pushing him down on the couch. "I'll be right back."

Kenshin sank bonelessly into the cushions, exhausted beyond endurance.

Kaoru returned a moment later with a big, heavy quilt. "Roll over," she said, giving his shoulder a shove. "I can practically see the tenseness in your shoulders."

"I don't need—" Kenshin protested.

Kaoru silenced him with a _look_. "I'm not asking, sweetheart."

For a moment he just stared. Then, with no small trepidation, he rolled onto his stomach and stretched out full-length on the couch. His breath caught when she peeled the robe from his shoulders, and his entire body stiffened with nerves.

An instant's hesitation; then strong fingers threaded into his hair, massaging his scalp, occasionally working in the soft scrape of her nails. "I'm not going to hurt you," she snapped, tone a curious opposition to her tender touch. "So just relax, okay?"

Slowly, and by increments, he did. Kaoru's hands were very kind to his frame, so much abused lately; she provided just enough pressure to be short of pain, palms and fingers working their way down his neck and shoulders.

Kenshin hissed as her fingers pressed into his rotator cuff. It was sore to the touch where his wannabe murderer had twisted his arm up behind his back. Kaoru's hands withdrew a bit and she asked, "Does that hurt?"

"Not that bad," he said quickly. He didn't want her to stop. It felt so nice to be taken care of, by a _ki_ untouched by anything but rough, warm affection.

Her fingers resumed their gentle work, now focusing on his shoulder and moving down his bicep. It _hurt_, but in a good, cleansing way. And when she was done it was looser, the pain fading from sharp throbbing to a warm ache.

Kaoru paused, one hand resting lightly on his elbow. "And what's this?"

"What?" Kenshin twisted around to see what she was looking at.

A big purple-blue mark was coming up on his arm, with four distinct finger-shapes. It was especially prominent on his pale coloring.

"This," Kaoru said, tracing the bruise with fingertips like a butterfly kiss.

"Oh," Kenshin wasn't sure what to say. "Um, I just bruise easy, that's all."

"Well it pisses me off," Kaoru said firmly. Without seeming to expect an answer she went back to her massage, with perhaps a bit more vigor than before.

Delts, triceps, spinal supports, lower back; the strong touch tortured and eased, leaving him limp as a boned fish. So warm and sleepy….

Kaoru grabbed up the comforter and sat down on the edge of the couch. "Scooch over," she ordered.

Kenshin did so, too tired to grasp the implications.

With a quick motion and a pleased sigh, Kaoru laid down and snuggled up next to him, tucking the quilt tightly around them both. She seemed quite content to lay her head on his shoulder and just breathe. It was ticklish, in an alarmingly pleasant way. And _alarming_ was indeed a good word; the sensation of the bare skin on her arms, of her denim-clad knee between his thighs and her soft curves against his chest, were extremely bad for his teenage hormones.

"Relax," Kaoru breathed against his throat, sending a bolt of heat right through him. "Don't let that lovely massage go to waste."

"This isn't—we shouldn't, I mean, I'm not—you're not wearing-" Coherence and his brain seemed to have parted ways.

"We were married for forty-one years, you goose." She said. "Besides…"

Then her mouth was on his neck, wet and warm and oh God it felt good; the rasp of her teeth and the tip of her tongue had his hands gripping her waist in an almost spasmodic motion.

"…we haven't even _done_ anything yet."

Her lips trailed up his neck to his jaw, leaving a trail of super-sensitized skin in their wake. Soft admonitions to let go, to let her take care of him, tickled his collarbone and sent his mind into a hazy downward spiral.

Kaoru's hands stroked his bare back and Kaoru's legs tangled with his and Kaoru's tongue stroked the roof of his mouth in a maddeningly slow seduction—she tasted of spice, as though she'd been chewing cinnamon gum—and Kenshin couldn't help responding, hands tangling in her hair to pull her closer, pulse thundering in his temples and wrists. He was burning to death in a tangle of hot, wet silk.

Finally he broke away for air. Kaoru pressed a few small, chastely lingering kisses on his lower lip before settling back to stroke his hair.

"What was _that_ for?" Kenshin asked after he'd gotten his breath back.

"I missed you," Kaoru said. "Besides, Uncle Seijuro told me what happened. You brood, so I thought you might need a distraction."

"Um…" now that there was more blood in his brain than in… other areas… Kenshin was becoming uncomfortable again. "Do you usually jump random guys who look like they need it?"

"Oh God!" For the first time, Kaoru seemed a bit disconcerted. "I always forget. How much do you remember? You do remember me, right?" her eyes narrowed. "You better not have been kissing me if you don't remember me."

Kenshin was tempted by the grade school repartee: _You started it!_ "I… I _know_ you." That was a conviction in the deepest part of his soul; his girl was a part of him, and meant to be a part of his life, without question. "But I'm not sure _how_ I know. I can't pick out any one particular memory."

"Oh God!" Kaoru repeated, burying her face in his chest. "I'm so embarrassed…."

"Imagine how I feel," Kenshin grumped. He was regaining a bit of his equilibrium now that Kaoru was a bit less sure of herself—and a bit less _touchy_. "Assaulted like that!"

Kaoru giggled, blush fading a bit, and Kenshin remembered liking her laugh, and liking to make her laugh himself. It felt so natural to gently tease. "C'mon, you enjoyed it." Kaoru said.

"Oro!" Kenshin turned away, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

"Hey." Kaoru tugged on his bangs. "None of that. You hungry?"

"Not really…"

"C'mon, I've got soup."

She jumped up off the couch, all athleticism and long legs. Kenshin got to his feet more sedately, a bit off-kilter. He blushed purple as he readjusted his bathrobe and wrapped the quilt around himself for good measure. She wouldn't strip off a blanket, right?

Right.

A small table was set up with a covered tureen and a pair of shallow soup bowls. Kaoru served up a few ladlefuls into a bowl and handed it to Kenshin.

"Eat up!" She said, plunking a spoon into his hand.

Kenshin lowered the bowl to the table and sat in one of the two chairs. "Kaoru?"

A pause in her busy hands. "Yeah?"

"Did Shishou tell you what happened?"

"About Mr. Sanders? Yes. I didn't think you'd want to talk about it." Kaoru said. "Are you okay?"

"It's not that," Kenshin said hastily, please that someone had finally figured out that rehashing things didn't make them better, only made them hurt all over again. "I wanted to ask you something else."

Kaoru sat down beside him. "I'm listening."

Slowly, not sure how to phrase the question without offending her, Kenshin said, "You said we were married… before. I mean… I don't remember…"

Remaining patiently silent, Kaoru put a hand on his knee.

"What happened?" he finally said, staring into his bowl. It was clam chowder—he hadn't noticed. "I hardly remember anything after Tomoe…well, after."

"You spent three more years with the Ishin Shishi," Kaoru said. "Then ten years wandering Japan before you came to live at my _dojo_. It was more than fourteen years between Tomoe and me, so it's not like you betrayed her."

That had been exactly what he'd been worried about. "I didn't mean to make it sound like—"

"Quit apologizing," Kaoru said, giving him a firm bop on the head. "It's okay, I'm not going to get mad at you or anything." She glanced at his untouched chowder. "_Eat!_"

More to appease her than anything, Kenshin took a bite. "So if I don't remember anything, how come you do?" he asked, after chewing and swallowing.

Kaoru looked at him thoughtfully. "I'm an anomaly, actually." She said. "Most of us remember our pasts in a semi-chronological order. When we're fifteen, we remember most often what happened when we were fifteen, with vague memories of when you're fourteen and sixteen. Of course, some very strong or traumatic memories may crop up at any time. We've got most of it by the time we're in our twenties."

She paused. "So how are you an anomaly?" Kenshin prompted.

"Because I remember everything," Kaoru said, her gaze clear and steady as a deep pool in winter. "From the time I was born to the time I died. No one else—not even Uncle Seijuro—remembers their past as completely as I do mine."

Unsure what to say, Kenshin took another bite of chowder. He didn't know how he felt about Kaoru's knowledge of their past. It was uncannily close to seeking fortune-telling. And there was the added complication of her… overt… romantic interest.

They had been _married_? His heart rebelled at the idea of another woman so soon after Tomoe, who had been life, love, friend and anchor even if his mind accepted the possibility. He had an inkling that what Kaoru said was true: Sometimes, in his dreams, it was laughing blue eyes and the scent of wood dust that haunted him rather than _hakubaikou_ and reserved black wells.

But she just assumed that he was going to fall back into that place! With no specific memories of his own, Kenshin was left to rely on someone else's perceptions of what he ought to think and feel.

He'd already had enough of that to last a lifetime.

His spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, and he realized he'd eaten all the soup.

"All done?" Kaoru asked brightly. She glanced at the clock and took his bowl. "It's almost four AM—I think we deserve a little sleep, don't you?"

Kenshin shied back warily. "I can take the couch," he said. "It's no big deal."

A rude noise was his reply. "You're still very ill," Kaoru said. "And like it or not, you need to sleep in a bed." She stood and folded her arms imperiously under her breasts, hip cocked to the side.

It was only after a couple hard swallows that Kenshin could speak. "I really don't feel comfortable with… that," he said lamely, wondering at the apologetic note in his voice. He was still ticked off, darn it!

Kaoru's eyes darkened with understanding. "I'll behave, I promise." She said, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "No touching. I just want to make sure you're actually sleeping. You know, without nightmares or anything." Kaoru flashed a smile. "Besides, it's cold."

Over his half-formed protests Kaoru grabbed his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. Her bed was a massive, wrought-iron gauze hung creation—much like a wedding cake, and very girly. With brisk efficiency she tucked him into the covers, sandwiching him between a down mattress cover and an equally downy comforter, with mounds and mounds of all different kinds of pillows.

Shinnying out of her jeans—Kenshin hastily averted his eyes—Kaoru proceeded to jump into bed beside him, thankfully wearing a pair of pajama bottoms. "Sleep tight," she said, reaching over and flicking off the lamp.

Lying there in Kaoru's over-fluffy bed, Kenshin considered getting up. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, but for the first time in ages he was completely warm, and so, so tired. Just a minute more. Just a minute more and he'd leave. Just a min—

The sounds of soft, gentle breathing filled the room.

* * *

"—no, Miss Westfield, it was an accident. Please calm down, ma'am, he's not hurt. No, it won't be necessary for you to come over. No, he hasn't asked for you…."


	13. Interlude: Stockholm Syndrome

So sorry about the long hiatus! Updates should be less sporadic now.

Disclaimer: Yeah, sure, I'm a grown man AND a manga artist.

* * *

…_a term used to describe a paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express __adulation__ and have positive feelings towards their captors that appear irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims, essentially mistaking a lack of abuse from their captors as an act of kindness._

* * *

Mist leant a hazy purplish quality to the New York countryside, reinforcing the sense of early morning quiet. Cows grazed mindlessly in verdant green fields, chewing and rechewing their clover.

A slim tan hand crisscrossed with white scars reached forward and adjusted the volume on the radio. A broad grin crossed a cheerful round face as a breeze from the truck's open window tousled longish brown hair.

The battered old gray Chevy turned off the asphalt onto a narrow, sinuous dirt road, raising a cloud of dust behind it.

The young man at the wheel drove another bumpy three miles past increasingly empty pastures and grassy rolling hills. He topped a rise and passed from the bucolic countryside into a scene lifted from a military documentary.

A fifteen foot steel-reinforced gate flanked by an electric fence of equal height crouched like an animal across the road. A pair of guards in fatigues carrying semiautomatic weapons stood in the gatehouse, and one stepped out to barricade the truck from passing any further.

"ID?" the soldier said sharply.

The young man grinned as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Aw, come on. You don't need to see _my_ ID."

"Sorry, buddy, but it's protocol." The soldier said. "ID or you're headed to detainment."

"Alright…" the young man sighed and dug in his back pocket until he produced a worn leather wallet, and from it a laminated card.

The soldier scanned the card with an exasperated twist to his mouth. His gaze lit on the name, however, and all the color drained from his stubbly face. His eyes bugged, and he choked.

"Is there a problem?" the young man asked pleasantly.

"Ah—n-no, Mr. Smith." The guard began to sweat. "I'm s-so sorry, sir!"

"Don't worry about it." Mr. Smith gave him a sunny smile. "Call me Shaine. You were just doing your job."

"Thank you, sir!" the sweating soldier saluted. He handed the ID back with trembling fingers and waved the gray Chevy through the gate.

Shaine Smith parked his battered truck in a dirt field that served as a parking lot for a few sedans and a couple of supply trucks. He hopped out of the truck and grabbed a sheathed _katana_ out of the bed, thrusting the sword through his belt and taking off across the compound, whistling.

The compound was several square miles and housed training grounds, administration buildings, and living quarters. Shaine passed a group of men drilling with knives on a field churned to mud, and gave a wincing grin as one fellow took a deep cut to the forearm. Ouch. They'd better put pressure on that, rhythmic spurting was usually a bad sign….

Shaine swiped his badge in the keycard reader of the main administration building; it was a stark, utilitarian construction of linoleum, brick, and buzzing fluorescents. Occasional cramped cubicles opened off the hall, inhabited by hunched secretaries. He gave them sunny smiles as he passed.

On the third floor he stopped before a plain, unmarked door, but rather than particle board it was a broad sheet of mahogany, polished to a splendid shine. Shaine drummed his knuckles against it and entered without waiting for an invitation.

It was a transition from night to day. Expensive shag carpets covered the parquet floors, and a broad mahogany desk sprawled in the company of plush velvet couches. A tall grandfather clock ticked ponderously in the corner, and bright sunshine streamed through the crystal clear windows.

A tall, handsome man lounged on the couch, a long pipe smoking in one hand. A woman straight out of a wet dream lounged on his arm, murmuring softly in his ear. Shaine smiled pleasantly at them as he bowed.

"Good morning, Shishio-_san_, Yumi-_san_."

"Hello, Soujiro-_kun_." Shishio-_san_ said. "I assume you have a good reason to barge in on me when you're supposed to be hunting?"

Soujiro—alias Shaine Smith—nodded, burbling happily, "Of course! I have fantastic news!"

Yumi-_san_ leaned forward, curiosity alive in her eyes. "What is it, kid?"

His grin broadened. "I've found Himura Battousai."

Shishio-_san_ stood, pulling away from pulling away from Yumi-_san_'s clinging embrace. Excitement suffused his features. "Where?"

"Hohenzollern," Soujiro said. "Hiko Seijuro's got him-"

Groaning, Shishio-_san_ dropped back onto the couch as Yumi-_san_ swore.

"There is some good news!" Soujiro protested. "He's very ill—our contact in Hohenzollern attempted an assassination. It was unsuccessful, but it wouldn't take much just to give Himura-_san_ a little… push."

"Himura Battousai is the one great obstacle in my quest for the new world order," Shishio-_san_ mused. He took a few moments, puffing on his pipe, mulling plans and repercussions.

"Let me go," Soujiro said. "C'mon, I _totally_ can take him."

"What have I told you about Americanisms?" Shishio-_san _said sharply. Then he sighed. "I'm torn. I'd love to take care of Himura myself, but to have him out of the equation altogether is… a great lure, indeed." He came to a decision. "You get one chance, Soujiro-_kun_, then I'll handle him personally."

Soujiro beamed. "So I get to go?" he asked hopefully.

"Do it," Shishio-_san_ said. His eyes seemed to smolder as he continued,

"Battousai won't defeat me again. Not this time…."


	14. Of Lovers Sleepin' Tight

Here it is, folks, posted right before my Spring Break vacation! (During which I will have my wisdom teeth out. But I'm trying not to think about that.)

Thanks to the reviewers, without whom this would not be posted. I do not own Rurouni Kenshin.

* * *

Hiko opened the door and grinned. "Hey, Hajime. It's good to see you."

"Can't say the same," Hajime growled, stepping over the threshold and dropping his car coat on a convenient antique settee. "You've really screwed it over this time, Seijuro. One of Shishio's agents _in your house_? With the children? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"

"In my defense," Hiko said, good humor undiminished—he'd expected this rebuke—"_You_ are supposed to handle background checks. I only hired the man a few weeks ago. _With _your stamp of approval."

"Che." Hajime made an irritated noise, but dropped the argument. "Battousai? And Kaoru?"

"Both as well as they can be," Hiko assured him. "Sleeping right now, I think. They had a long night. Care to come to the office for a drink?"

"Only if it's a double-distilled brandy." Hajime said promptly. When Hiko raised an eyebrow at him, Hajime snapped, "Tokio and I have an agreement. If she can't drink, neither can I. This will be the last opportunity I have for a long while. Besides-" he scowled. "—I have a feeling I'll need to be less than sober to deal with Battousai."

"As you wish." Hiko said. The two men walked in silence to the office, where Hiko locked the soundproof door behind them. Hiko idly browsed through his liquor selection while his counterpart prowled restlessly. He ignored the seemingly ADD behavior; as long as Hiko had known the man, Hajime disliked sitting and would much rather pace, fidget, anything.

"Ice?" Hiko asked, selecting a smooth, well-aged Laressingale Armagnac and two brandy snifters.

Hajime snorted. "For brandy? Knowing you, I'd have thought it would already be chilled."

"I prefer mine warm," Hiko said. "What did you find out in Egypt?"

"Much; some even of interest," Hajime said, picking up his snifter and swirling the contents. He leaned one hip against a chair, his only concession to typical social interaction. "Shishio is sending tendrils into Hezbollah. He's received a very positive response."

"Of course he has," Hiko snapped. "Any Muslim with jihad on the brain would eat up what he's feeding them with a silver spoon. I need specifics!"

"They haven't agreed to anything yet," Hajime said, utterly unperturbed. "At this time there _isn't_ anything more concrete. But Shishio is definitely stepping up his efforts—he's approached al Qaeda, Hezbollah, and a half dozen others. He's also got the support of Muhammad bin Ibhir."

"_What_?" Hiko shot up, slopping brandy over his hand. "bin Ibhir is a moderate!"

"Shishio's married to his daughter," Hajime said grimly. "I don't know if it's blackmail, nepotism, or something else, but bin Ibhir is sending him financial aid and approaching other moderates on his behalf. It's beginning to snowball. Seijuro," he leaned forward, gripping the snifter between both hands, "We need to nip this in the bud. He's going to start the terror strikes soon, and I have a hunch that the Tenken has begun assassinations."

"There's a reason for these reincarnations," Hiko said. "It's not just random. We can't interfere—"

"I know your idiotic 'cosmic theory'," Hajime snarled. "And I'm telling you that the world doesn't operate the way it used to. Those children aren't going to be ready to take on terrorists until the organization is too massive, especially the way it's growing. _We have to act_."

Hiko shook his head. "We've alerted the American, Israeli, and German governments. Everyone important to us is safe. In a few years the children will be grown and ready for this kind of challenge. There is no reason to act yet. What if he decides on some kind of all-out war? What will we do then?"

"Maybe you were never an assassin," Hajime said. "So you don't realize what a single well-placed kill can do. Shishio's organization doesn't run on the efficacy of the organization, but on the talents and charisma of just one man. If we kill him the Juppongatana disintegrate and the ITTF mops up the rest. Cakewalk."

"It'll never work," Hiko said. "We tried to take out Jin-e preemptively and it was a disaster. My parents gone, your mother crippled…"

Hajime glared mulishly.

"There's something about Kenshin," Hiko said. "Kenshin and the children. _They're_ the ones who are going to change the world, not us."

"Well, _shimatta_." Hajime said. "To get you, of all people, to admit that… it must be true."

Hiko smirked at him. "I know what you're implying and I'm not rising to your bait. Face it, old friend; it is our job to prepare them for what they're going to face."

Scrubbing a hand over his face—the first sign of exhaustion he'd shown, though he had to have been awake over thirty hours. "I'll admit that Jin-e was a fiasco. I'll also admit that it was mostly my fault. I _still _think your cosmic theory is a load of bull."

He tossed back the snifter of brandy and headed for the door.

"Hajime-"

He wiggled two fingers over his shoulder. "Chill, Seijuro."

Hiko shook his head, an ironic, unwilling smile on his lips. That was the closest Hajime would come to admitting Hiko won the argument.

* * *

Kaoru woke and her vision was a dozen shades of red: scarlet, cardinal, copper, claret, crimson, and brick. She grinned, reaching up to comb her fingers through the soft, warm strands of hair, but just the ends. Kenshin needed his sleep.

Her smile faded to a frown, nerves tingling in the pit of her stomach, and she propped herself up on one elbow. She was worried she'd come on too strong last night—_way_ too strong. Kenshin had always been an intensely reserved, private person, and she'd trampled all over his personal space like a bull in a china shop.

It was just that he had looked so hurt and lonely, his eyes red and swollen with tears, _flinching_ from her touch as though he thought she might hurt him. She'd only wanted to show him that he wasn't alone, distract him as best she could from whatever horrors lurked behind his eyes. Kaoru could still remember, years ago, when he'd woken up in a cold sweat after a nightmare. Unable to sleep without him in the _futon_, she'd made two cups of tea and gone out to sit on the porch, pressed against his side.

"_You want to talk about it?"_

_Hunching into his _haori_ against the predawn chill, Kenshin shook his head, steam wreathing his face. "Those times…"he made an abortive gesture with one hand. "Sometimes I think the only way I stay sane is to forget."_

_She'd laced her fingers with his, providing the quiet comfort of a friendly presence until the sun rose._

Huffing a frustrated breath, she smacked herself on the forehead. _Way to go, Kamiya, jumping him like some kind of tart. You shouldn't have pushed him._

Kaoru didn't want to think about the fact that she'd been lonely, too. The part of her that remembered being an adult woman with grown children remarked sardonically, _And those teenage hormones don't help anything either_.

'Cause Kenshin was _cute_, no question, even if he was painfully scrawny and a little rough around the edges.

The bruises on his arm ticked her off—if Kenshin hadn't already dealt with Sanders in a very permanent and lethal way, Kaoru would have introduced him to the business end of her bokken, _before_ turning him over to her father. Nobody hurt Kenshin and got away with it.

_For now I should probably just try to be his friend,_ she thought, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. _Things are complicated right now. If he wants more, fabulous, but I won't push._

With that thought in mind, she slipped carefully out from under the covers and went to that bathroom, showering perfunctorily and putting on a pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt, pulling her hair up into a ponytail after a quick brush. The clock read 11:24, hours later than she usually slept. Clean and groomed, she sat on the edge of the bed. Kenshin's eyes were open, watching her quietly. "Morning, sleepy head. It's almost lunchtime."

"I thought I'd dreamed you," he said.

"Easy mistake to make," Kaoru said. "Hey, I wanted to apologize for last night. I was excited to see you, and I think I made you uncomfortable."

"S'okay," Kenshin said, not meeting her eyes. He sat up and fixed his ponytail, finger-combing long bangs and sides away from his eyes, a soft flush on his cheeks. Kaoru was a bit disappointed he didn't leave it loose, but didn't say anything.

"You want some breakfast?" Kaoru asked.

"Maybe just a cup of tea?" Kenshin said.

"Sure!" Kaoru said. "I'll make extra toast in case you want any."

* * *

Hajime grinned wolfishly as he headed for Kaoru's room. She'd been under 'Uncle Seijuro's' gentle, under-demanding tutelage for several months now. Time to shake her up a little, Saitou-style.

Not bothering to knock, he pushed her bedroom door open.

This was _not_ amusing. Not funny, not allowable, and definitely not _cute_—no matter what his wife would probably say.

Battousai—teenage boy!—was sitting next to Kaoru, clearly having just woken from _sleeping in her bed_.

Hajime most emphatically did _not_ think they were _cute_.

Himura's eyes snapped to him a split second before Saitou bellowed, "BATTOUSAI, GET YOUR PAWS OFF MY DAUGHTER!"

The reaction was predictable; it was the speed that was unanticipated. In spite of sparring with Seijuro, memory failed to capture the lightning-strike that was Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_. Hajime ducked the table lamp by a good three inches, but the cord clipped his ear.

"Saitou!" Battousai was out of the bed, hands scrabbling at the bedside table for another projectile. "Kaoru-_dono_, get down-"

"DADDY!" an ebony bullet hit Saitou in the chest as his oldest daughter wrapped him in a firm hug. "Why didn't you call and tell me you were coming?"

Battousai's face was _priceless_: mouth agape, fist clenched, eyes bugged. Hajime successfully resisted the urge to laugh at him, but it must be confessed that he did smirk as he put a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

"All things considered, I'm glad I didn't call. Is this the sort of thing Seijuro lets you get up to while I'm gone?" Hajime growled, glaring at her.

"It's not her fault," Battousai protested, right hand flexing as though itching for the hilt of a sword. His cheeks were red; Hajime wasn't sure whether it was fever-brightness, a blush, or some medical mumbo-jumbo only Seijuro would know from the kid's recent hospital stay. "I was-"

"I know exactly who is to blame for this little… encounter," Hajime said distastefully. "And it is not _you_. This reeks of Kaoru."

"Daddy, be nice." Kaoru pouted. "It's not Uncle Seijuro's fault or Kenshin's either." She tugged on his arm, trying to turn his attention away from Battousai. "So how's Mom?"

"Fine. Though you'll have a new sibling in eight or so months," Hajime growled.

Kaoru's face lit up. "Mom's pregnant? Oh my gosh, when?"

"She decided last week in Cairo," Hajime said, keeping half an eye on Battousai. Injured or not, benevolent or not, the boy was a predator and it would never be wise to turn his back on a predator. "She's staying with your grandmother at the manor for prenatal care, get evaluated for all that African crap."

"That's awesome," Kaoru crowed. "I have to call her!"

"You and I aren't done talking, young lady." Hajime warned her. He was still infuriated by the sight of his arch nemesis _in bed_ with his daughter.

Kaoru sighed, her ebullient grin replaced with a small frown. "Kenshin," she said, addressing the wary redhead, "Why don't you get a shower while Dad and I talk? I brought some of your clothes over last night. Plain soap and towels are under the sink, okay?"

Battousai stood still, with the sort of stillness a serpent might use watching a mongoose: Ready to spring into action in an instant. Hajime noted with distaste Battousai's state of undress—his robe was slipping off his shoulder, and it was clear there was a good deal less than more under the terrycloth.

He shot Hajime a defiant look as he turned to Kaoru.

"Thanks," he said awkwardly. And then, very shy, "And congratulations on your new brother or sister."

The smile that lit up her face was incandescent. "I appreciate that," she said, understated mushy feelings shining out of her eyes.

Himura gulped audibly and scampered for the bathroom, the lock clicking behind him.

Hajime snickered as he followed Kaoru to her sitting room. "Not exactly Casanova, is he?"

"Cut him some slack," Kaoru said. "He's always been shy, and now he's got issues to go along with it. Besides-" her lips twitched. "According to Mom, you're not exactly Casanova yourself."

"Ignore what your mother says, she's hormonal," Hajime said. "Seijuro met with the police inspector last night."

"What did he say?" Kaoru leaned forward eagerly.

"They're not going to press charges," Hajime told her.

"Thank God," Kaoru said, sagging in relief. "What convinced them?"

"Shinomori and his merry band of misfits pulled a rabbit out of their hat." Hajime said. "Apparently 'George Sanders' had several hits under other aliases, not to mention ties to organized terrorism. It leant serious credence to our story. The only thing Inspector Schulze wants is to talk with him."

"What for?" Kaoru said, her voice rising in alarm. Hajime could just see his daughter getting ready to go after the entire Interpol organization with nothing but her _bokken_ and a hefty helping of righteous Amazon Kamiya-Kasshin butt whup.

"He probably just wants to make his own evaluation." Hajime said, diffusing her fury before he had one very PO'd _shihandai_ on his hands. "After all, your little boyfriend did commit a pretty brutal bit of manslaughter." There was definite _approval_ in his tone.

Kaoru caught the undercurrent in his voice. "You're not going to pull the overprotective dad shtick, are you?"

"Comprehensively." Hajime said. "More for his benefit than yours."

Her silvery laugh made him shake his head. "Kaoru, we're going to have to talk about some boundaries."

"Daaaaaaad…." She whined.

"_No_," he said sharply. "Your brothers have dating ground rules. You're no exception."

"I've never needed rules," Kaoru complained. "Come on."

"You've never dated," Hajime pointed out. "Rule number one: You will never sleep with him in the same bed again. Ever. Rule number two: You're not to be alone with him under any circumstances. Three: No tongue. Four-"

"Dad, quit being stupid," Kaoru said. "What if he has another nightmare?"

"He can bloody well rot," Hajime said, his Oxford coming through in his irritation.

"Be serious," Kaoru said. "I'll agree to an eleven o'clock curfew for dates, and I won't-" her cheeks colored. "I won't sleep with him. Deal?"

It was better than he'd hoped for. "Deal."

Battousai poked his head through the door, and Hajime carefully controlled his startle reaction. He hadn't heard Battousai coming.

"Are you ready for breakfast?" Kaoru asked cheerfully.

"I guess," Battousai said. He sounded distinctly unenthusiastic, but then, he did look a little green.

Hajime stood. "Have fun, kids." He said, with a heavy touch of sarcasm. "I've got work to do."

"Bye, Daddy!" Kaoru said cheerfully.

Hajime paused with one hand on the door handle to give Battousai a _look_. The _hitokiri _stiffened, and Hajime smirked as he closed the door.

_I'll have to get him to spar with me. Away from the house, though; Seijuro gets so worked up about property damage…._

* * *

Kenshin was still in the stage of the train wreck where he was wondering, _What the heck is that piece of shrapnel sticking out of my chest?_ Feeling more than a little off-balance, he rounded on Kaoru and asked, "_Saitou_ is your _father_?"

"Don't get snarly with me," Kaoru said, voice unheated. "I was going to tell you, but I didn't realize he was here. He was _supposed_ to be in Cairo with Mom."

"What was he doing in Cairo?" Kenshin asked blankly. _Up to no good, I'll bet._

"Some research," Kaoru said vaguely. "C'mon, I'm hungry. Oh, and Dad told me that they're not going to press charges for what happened last night, so you don't have to worry about that."

"Really?" Kenshin had been sure that there would at least be a manslaughter charge. "Did he say anything else?"

Kaoru shook her head. "We'll track down Uncle Seijuro later and ask him."

The halls were empty as they headed kitchenward. Kenshin felt his skin crawling at the unnatural quiet. Where was everyone?

Kaoru was freaking him out, too. Not her, herself: As far as girls went Kaoru was pretty tomboy-normal with her ponytail and jeans and happy chatter. No, it was the sense of utter completion he found in her presence; her intimate knowledge of his life felt only natural.

He'd never even had a _girlfriend_.

_Tomoe_, his aching heart reminded him. _I had a relationship with Tomoe_….

She hadn't been just a 'girlfriend' though. The word seemed too labeled and shallow for the understanding they had shared. Tomoe had been his support, his love, his only reason for existence. 'Girlfriend' was a high school counterpart that football jocks groped in the backseat after games, not the incredibly kind and unselfish woman who had saved his honor and sanity.

_And I was kissing Kaoru last night_. His cheeks burned with shame and the warmth of memory. Those minutes seemed burned into his brain. _I've betrayed Tomoe_.

The idea made him nauseous. How low could he sink, being with another girl less than a week after Tomoe's death? And not just being with her, but touching her, feeling things for her, giving her things that Tomoe had wanted and he hadn't been able to give her, because of her pain….

It made him want to shrivel up, crawl into a corner and die.

Kaoru tugged him to a stop. "What's wrong?" She asked, pushing his bangs away from his face.

Resent bubbling up in him, Kenshin pushed her hand away. Seething with fury—more at himself than at Kaoru—Kenshin lashed out.

"Look, I barely know you, so butt out, okay? I don't need your—your pity or your patronizing or whatever! I'm not Himura Kenshin anymore. That's not who I am!"

Expression inscrutable, Kaoru took a moment to absorb the blow and compose herself. Then she looked up and smiled brightly.

"I can see we've got a lot to talk about," she said, steady as a rock. Kenshin felt utterly caught off guard, like he'd thrown a punch and stumbled because there'd been no resistance. "But over breakfast, okay?"

With no target the sudden anger fizzled, leaving Kenshin feeling hollow. His protests were mostly token as Kaoru continued toward the kitchen.

It surprised him how tiring this small excursion was. Last night he'd been running on nerve, adrenaline, and the pure will to live, and now the grinding exhaustion of his body fighting a serious overdose (had it just been night before last? It seemed so much longer) was catching up to him. The stairs, particularly, were harder to manage than he would have liked, brushing with disaster.

The oxygen needed to trip down the stairs at the pace Kaoru set was making him short of breath and dizzy, but he wasn't about to ask for her help. Small black spots danced before his eyes, and his steps weren't quite coordinated; then the back of one of his heels struck the next stair instead of his whole foot, and he slipped.

He hit the stair with a grunt of displaced air, and it might have been a catastrophe if Kaoru hadn't tucked around his waist in a shockingly fast motion. "Whoa!" she yelled, coming down with him but stopping and cushioning the fall with admirable control.

Breath knocked thoroughly out of him, Kenshin sat on the stair for a moment and took dozens of shallow, quick breaths. Kaoru's hands on his cheeks were pleasantly cool as she cupped his cheeks. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"Gimme…a minute," Kenshin huffed. Slowly, the black spots and dizziness faded, but his knees were still a little shaky.

"I went too fast, didn't I?" Kaoru said apologetically. "Sorry. I'll take it slower. You good?"

"I'm alright now," he said, getting carefully to his feet. The hall spun crazily, and Kaoru gripped his forearms, steadying him. "Maybe not…"

"Do I need to get Uncle Seijuro?" Kaoru asked, peering at him.

"No, really, I'm okay." The world still rocked slowly side to side like a boat, but it was better with Kaoru's arm wrapped around him and if he focused on a stationary point—in this case, the bust on a plinth at the bottom of the stairwell.

They made it to the kitchen in one piece, and Kenshin sank gratefully onto a battered chair by the scarred chopping table. Kaoru gave him a critical visual once-over before going to the breadbox and removing a loaf. It looked homemade.

She took four pieces out of the bag and put them in the toaster. Kenshin had a brief, irrational flashback to burned fish and over-salted soup; without thinking first he blurted, "I'll do that, if you like."

Kaoru gave him an absolutely scathing look. "I am fully capable of making _toast_," she said coolly. "You drop the bread in the toaster, push down the button-" she did so "—and wait for it to ding." She dusted off her hands and leaned a hip against the counter.

"Sorry," Kenshin said. "I just thought… sorry."

"I know what you thought," Kaoru said. "But I can make toast, and cereal, and even ramen noodles. Cooking in the twenty-first century isn't as hard as it used to be."

"Sorry," he repeated, a little ashamed now.

"S'alright," Kaoru said genially. She put two mugs of water in the microwave and got a handful of instant teabags out of a drawer. "Do you still feel yuck?"

"Just a little tired," Kenshin conceded. Casting around for a change of subject he asked, "So… Saitou's your dad? I can hardly believe it. I mean, you're not adopted or anything?"

"Nope!" Kaoru beamed. "He's really not as bad a guy as you remember. He and Uncle Seijuro are best friends, have been since they were two years old. My grandma's got some great pictures."

"Do you have any other brothers and sisters?" Kenshin asked. "I mean, other than the new one."

"Three brothers," Kaoru said. She wrinkled her nose playfully. "They're good kids, but hyper and totally insane." She caught the expression on Kenshin's face and laughed. "Yeah, there's four of us. I hope the next one's a girl."

Three brothers? Kenshin couldn't imagine what it must have been like to grow up in close quarters with so many other people. His own home growing up had been more like a museum than anything else, full of untouchable antiques and designer furnishings. It was a quiet house, and certainly not a place where a young boy felt welcome.

"So do you have any brothers or sisters?" Kaoru asked.

Kenshin cocked his head. "Isn't that the sort of thing Shishou would have briefed you about before I even walked in the door?"

"Well-" Kaoru was spared answering by a whine from the toaster and a series of metallic clicks. She busied herself with slathering real butter and a drizzle of honey onto the thick slabs of golden-brown bread, and served the plate and both mugs of tea with a flourish.

"I thought you two might be down here," a voice said from the doorway, and Kenshin jumped. He hadn't heard—or sensed—anything.

"Yup!" Kaoru said cheerfully. "Want some breakfast?"

"No thank you," Shishou said, taking a seat at the table. "But I'd appreciate a cup of coffee. One cream, no sugar."

Kaoru went to fetch the pot.

"Did you sleep well?" Shishou asked.

"Fine," Kenshin said warily. There was a gleam in his master's eye that did not bode well….

"Good!" Shishou said. "I want you to come up to my office so I can run an EKG and draw some blood. In the meantime—ah, thank you, Kaoru-_chan_."

Kenshin picked up a piece of gooey toast and nibbled the crust. It was warm, and smelled pleasantly nutty, but the taste on his tongue was foul and coppery. He put the bread back on the plate.

"As I was saying," Shishou continued, "Pending the results of our tests, the Interpol inspector wants to get your statement about what happened last night."

_Blood and death, a gurgling rattle in the throat—_

"What does he want?" Kenshin asked. Then, to Kaoru, "I thought Saitou said they weren't going to press charges!"

"Relax, they're not." Shishou said. "You're jumpier than a rabbit on crack. Schulze just wants to talk to you."

"Oh." Kenshin sat back and tried to still the frantic thumping of his heart.

"Finish your breakfast and we'll see about that exam," Shishou said, taking a long swig of coffee.

Sensing an opportunity to set aside the food he didn't want, Kenshin pushed the plate away. "I'm not really hungry, anyway."

Kaoru began to swell up like a toad. "Oh no you don't-!"

A noise from Shishou cut off what Kenshin was fairly sure was the beginnings of a fairly impressive tirade.

"I have plenty of time this morning," Shishou said. His tone was bland enough, even pedestrian, but his eyes were as hard and as black as obsidian above the grim slash of his mouth. "Go ahead and eat. Take your time."

To anyone else, the thick, soft slices of chewy brown bread with real butter melted into the top, caramelized with local honey, would look delicious; indeed, the warm smell rising from the white-glazed ceramic plate was tantalizing. However, Kenshin wasn't fooled. He knew every sweet, warm bite would slide down his throat with the taste and texture of blood.

Slowly, with a nausea more akin to horror than illness, Kenshin plucked a shred of crust from his toast and ate it.

* * *

As always, comments are appreciated.


	15. The Hunting of Man

Thank you to the reviewers, who continue to inspire.

I do not own Rurouni Kenshin.

* * *

"_There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter."_ –Ernest Hemmingway

* * *

"Make a fist… good."

The collecting tube filled with blood, and Hiko removed the needle from Kenshin's elbow and put pressure on the small puncture. The vein had been difficult to find on Kenshin's bruised, emaciated arms, and Hiko didn't want to take the chance of him bleeding any more than necessary.

Kenshin slipped his fingers under Hiko's, holding the pressure dressing without being asked. He'd been increasingly quiet and withdrawn throughout the exam, finally culminating in this taciturn refusal to meet Hiko's eyes.

Frowning, Hiko took a penlight from his pocket. Under the pretense of checking Kenshin's pupils, he studied his apprentice's face.

_He looks exhausted. And depressed. Hardly unexpected… but why won't he look at me?_

"Well, you're lucky." Hiko said aloud. "Your arrhythmia seems to have corrected itself, so we can take you off the digoxin and aspirin."

A single, quick nod, then back to staring at bare feet.

"I want you to take it easy for a few days," Hiko continued, with a somewhat pitiful attempt at humor, "No accidental overdoses, murder attempts, or naked wrestling matches with Kaoru, got it?"

That last finally garnered a response. "Kaoru-_dono_'s not like that," Kenshin said coldly.

"Ooh, hit a nerve, have I?" Hiko taunted. He wanted Kenshin to feel something other than this useless self-hatred, and if that meant an external focus for his anger, Hiko was willing to take it. "Must be something to it, then."

"Stop it," Kenshin said.

"If it's her father you're worried about, don't." Hiko said, calculated arrogance infused in every word. "I'm sure you two will be able to find a nice, secluded closet somewhere-"

"Quit it!" Kenshin said, on his feet now. "I don't need this. I-" For a moment, he stood and trembled, then turned and retched into the trash can.

Somewhat alarmed, Hiko stepped over and carefully held Kenshin's hair back as he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Hiko rubbed Kenshin's thin shoulders, providing what comfort he could.

"Are you alright?" Hiko asked. Coarse tremors shook Kenshin's hands, and a fine sheen of sweat dotted his brow.

"Sorry," Kenshin said. "I was... remembering."

Ah. Flashback.

Guiding Kenshin back to the exam table so he could lay down, Hiko called, "Kaoru?"

Waiting outside the door, she was in the room almost instantly. "Yeah?"

"Bed rest for Kenshin," Hiko said firmly. "All day. I'll call the inspector and let him know that we're deferring the interview for medical reasons."

Kaoru alternated concerned looks between Hiko and Kenshin. "Is he alright?"

"He's not in any life-threatening danger," Hiko told her, watching Kenshin breathe heavily through his nose, both hands gripping the table white-knuckled. "Just feeling terrible. Give him plenty of liquids and nothing strenuous today. I'll come up and check on you both later."

Kaoru led Kenshin away, presumably upstairs to bed. Hiko paged Beth to get a maid in to take care of the mess in the exam room, and went to his office to brainstorm.

Pouring himself a cup of _sake_, Hiko looked out over the lilac bush beneath his window. Now that Kenshin was more-or-less stable physically, it was time to start healing the damage done during his time as a _hitokiri_. It was too bad Hiko had never met Katsura Kogoro; he had a few things he wanted to say to the pillar of the Revolution who had used an innocent boy in his own bid for power.

Though if he ever met the man's reincarnation… gloves for fingerprints, a nice quiet _secluded _cabin in the woods, razor wire, and no witnesses. Bliss.

But for the time being, Kenshin needed rest, time with Kaoru, and some peace. Staring out over the formal garden, Hiko nearly cursed himself for a fool. _Of course! A garden!_

He could still remember the first time Kenshin had come out of his shell, on a warm April day more than a hundred years ago….

_It was the first real day of spring, the first day it hadn't been too cold or too wet to leave the house. Birds were twittering, the first gauzy veil of green was laid over the trees, and new minty grass had replaced last year's dead brown._

_Being cooped up with a scared, scarred kid all winter had been nightmarish, to put it mildly. His new _deshi_ had contracted a nasty case of pneumonia a couple weeks after coming to live with him and had spent ten days battling a raging fever and hacking cough, then nearly six weeks convalescing. Now it was more than past time to work off the cabin fever—Hiko had been too concerned with the boy's physical weakness to allow him out into the elements._

"_That feels _good!_" Hiko roared, reaching hands up to stretch muscles too long cramped in the low-roofed cabin. Cracks and pops announced the motion._

_He glanced down at his apprentice, hoping for at least some sign of pleasure on the pale features, but Kenshin was hovering in the cabin doorway watching Hiko nervously from behind his bangs._

_With a weary sigh, Hiko coaxed, "Come on out, kid. The sun's not going to bite you."_

_Kenshin crouched further back into the dark interior, shaking his head slightly._

_Groaning in long-suffering annoyance, Hiko reached back and snagged Kenshin by the back of his _gi_, ignoring the startled yelp that accompanied the redhead._

"_You need some sunshine," Hiko told him bluntly. "You're starting to look like an _oni_."_

_Kenshin ducked his head and nodded._

_Leaving the boy more or less to his own devices, Hiko drew his _katana_ and began an aerial _kata_ he hadn't been able to practice in months. In doing so, he kept an eye on Kenshin._

_For a few minutes Kenshin just watched Hiko practice, but interest (or what Hiko presumed was interest; it was difficult to tell what was going on behind those odd-colored eyes sometimes) waned when he switched to a more ordinary exercise. Kenshin had seen plenty of those this past winter. Apparently bored, the boy wandered the overgrown yard, pausing occasionally to glare up at the sun; finally he plopped down and began to pick listlessly at the grass._

_Frowning, Hiko moved on to a more complex _kata_. He'd hoped the fresh air and sunshine would perk his sepulchral apprentice up. Happy singing and skipping through the flowers was probably too much to ask, but how about a little energy?_

_The _kata_ had ended, and he had started another, when movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention._

_Kenshin was on his hands and knees, scanning the earth before him with serious, narrowed eyes. Watching with some bemusement, Hiko saw Kenshin carefully pick certain plants out of the ground, roots and all, placing them in a neat pile._

_Over the course of the next hour the behavior got more and more bizarre. The boy removed rocks and pulled plants—not all, just most, leaving bare spots of ground around otherwise anonymous growths. Kenshin sweated and strained as he pulled up small bushes; Hiko raised an eyebrow at the expletives that fell from the child when he closed his fist around a thorny vine. _Did you learn that from the slavers, or from me?

_Intervention became necessary when Kenshin attempted to move a stone larger than Hiko's head. He put his whole body into it, grunting when it didn't budge._

"_What are you doing?" Hiko asked, hefting the small boulder easily._

"_Nothing," Kenshin said, a flush staining his pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to presume-"_

"_What were you doing?" Hiko repeated, curious now. Whatever the heck Kenshin had been doing, he'd been doing it diligently. More than three dozen weeds stood alone, without any other green for at least a foot around them._

"_Weeding," Kenshin said unexpectedly. "Master, what happened to this garden?"_

_Hiko Seijuro XII's death was what happened, the thirteenth master remembered sourly. When he'd still been Ni'itsu Kakunoshin, apprentice extraordinaire, Master Hiko had banned him from all but the most menial garden tasks indefinitely after ruining the cabbages. Most of those tasks had consisted of making sure the animals stayed out and keeping up the fence. His master had cursed him roundly, more than once, for being a 'city-bred idiot samurai the Buddha didn't give the brains of dung', and after the older man's demise he'd let the little vegetable plot go to seed. This, apparently, was what remained._

"_It was my master's," Hiko said gruffly. "I don't garden." _It's been six years…_ "How did any of this stuff survive?"_

"_Well, it's mostly onions," Kenshin said, wrinkling his nose. It was the most opinion Hiko had seen out of him yet. "I don't like onions, but 'Tousan says they're easier to grow than anythin' else, 'cept tomatoes. We don't have those," he added. "They've only got tomatoes in _gaijin_ countries. But there's a watermelon, and a couple'a radishes. I bet that spot would be great for cabbages."_

"_Cabbages, huh?"Hiko repeated with a smirk._

_The boy nodded enthusiastically, and Hiko noticed a smear of dirt on his forehead. "It's higher than the rest of the bed, and nice and sunny, so it'll drain well and not be wet. And you could have soybeans, too, for edamame, and cucumbers for sour relish, and rapunzel lettuce and watercress and mint and sweet basil-" Kenshin's eyes had acquired a dreamy cast._

_Hiko mentally catalogued the suggestions, listening with half an ear to the rest of Kenshin's chatter about fertilizer, optimal sunlight, and the positions of the Mutsu Boshi in relation to planting and harvesting times. How odd that such an onerous chore as gardening had drawn Kenshin from his reticence…._

He picked up the phone to call his gamekeeper.

* * *

Kenshin wasn't paying much attention to the movie. It was some kind of romantic comedy, with Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock; he only knew that much because Kaoru told him so. He watched the screen with blank eyes, not connecting the small figures to the dialogue coming out of the speakers. He felt listless and hollow, but incongruously peaceful.

After his breakdown in the exam room, Kaoru had whisked him away back to her room, where she'd put on a litany of light-hearted movies, first the one with the balloon-house and the dogs, now this. She didn't try to make him talk, just kept him company. Kenshin still couldn't believe she was being so _nice_. In his experience, most people just didn't do _nice_ unless they wanted something from him.

Kaoru glanced down at him and smiled. "You're not paying attention, huh?"

_She has a pretty smile… Tomoe almost never smiled. It had to be something really special._ "Not really." He confessed

"Me neither," Kaoru said. "It's almost time for supper anyway."

A little stab of panic clenched Kenshin's stomach. Not at the idea of dinner—he was indifferent to food—but he didn't know if he was ready to face the entire household, but he was sure his master and Beth weren't going to let him get away with skipping dinner.

Something of his apprehension must have shown on his face, because Kaoru paused with one hand on the remote and said, "You're not still nauseous, are you? Because Uncle Seijuro can give you something for that. You can't afford to lose any more weight, sweetheart."

"It's not that," he said. He could feel himself blushing, face and throat turning as red as his hair. "I just… don't want anyone… staring at me."

Compassion and comprehension instantly lit Kaoru's features, softening her blue gaze, but then she bit her lip.

"It might hurt their feelings if we ask for supper up here," she said doubtfully. Then, "Oh, don't give me those puppy eyes, mister!"

A bit hurt, Kenshin stood up. "I wasn't," he said stiffly.

"Oh yes you were," Kaoru said, an indulgent smile playing on her mouth. "But maybe it was an accident."

Kenshin shrugged. "Whatever."

"Hey, I've got it!" Kaoru squealed, startling Kenshin near out of his skin. "We can go into the village!"

_Yes!_ Kenshin thought. Away from the well-meaning watchful eyes of almost-friends. "That sounds great," he said, the relief in his voice nearly palpable.

Apparently quite pleased with herself, Kaoru grinned and pulled a slim smartphone from her pocket. "I'll just call Uncle Seijuro and make sure it's okay with him."

The relief popped like a soap bubble. "He's going to say no," Kenshin predicted glumly.

"We'll see," Kaoru said. She hit a button on speed dial. "Hey, Uncle Seijuro! How are you? Good! I'm good. Hey, I was wondering if Kenshin and I could go to the village for supper."

There was a pause, and her brow furrowed.

"Yes, I know… yeah, I have it. Okay, good! We can be back by ten. Okay, nine-thirty. Alright."

She hung up and grinned brightly. "Get changed. We're headed to Hohenzollern village."

* * *

"That's _your_ car?" Kenshin asked, sliding into the front seat of the silver Volvo. It was a sleek, perfectly detailed, clearly expensive vehicle.

"A present from my mom for my sixteenth birthday," Kaoru said. "Dad got me a police radar." She patted a black box on the dash smugly.

"Is that something you need on a regular basis?" Kenshin asked, reaching up to put on his seatbelt. Kaoru just started the car with a laugh.

Pulling smoothly into the drive, Kaoru drove an exemplary thirty-five miles per hour and took the turns gently, a model driver in spite of Kenshin's original misapprehension. Very slowly, he began to relax.

Kaoru said something, and Kenshin said, "What?" Again, he hadn't been paying attention.

"Do you like Italian or what?" Kaoru asked. "Hohenzollern village has a great little Italian place, and of course there's all the fast food like McDonald's and stuff."

"Whatever you like is fine," Kenshin said, leaning back to look out the window. It was dark, and the streetlights flashed occasionally through the pattern of branches above his head. The repetitive motion was hypnotic, lulling him into a half-doze. Kenshin didn't even realize he had fallen asleep until the car door shut, announcing Kaoru's return with three paper bags that filled the car with a greasy, salty smell.

"Wake up! I've got Dafne's special," Kaoru said. "_Spekknodel_—cheese and bacon stuffed in potato dumplings-and _sachertorte_ and grilled asparagus."

Controlling his breathing, Kenshin straightened and took the napkin and plastic fork she offered him. Kaoru shared out the food, and they ate in relative silence for a while. Kenshin was surprised to find himself enjoying it.

"So Uncle Seijuro tells me you draw," Kaoru said, as they were munching on apricot-glazed cake. Kenshin picked a crumb off his, chewed and swallowed before he answered.

"Some. It's just a hobby."

"I bet you're good," Kaoru said. "I took a drawing class once, and I _sucked. _Seriously, my stick figures were squiggly and my circles were boxy. They only looked right if you did this."

She tilted her head, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue. Almost against his will, Kenshin chuckled. "It can't be that bad," he assured her.

"I am an offense against the arts," Kaoru said in a long-suffering tone, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder.

Again, that involuntary laugh. Kenshin found that he was being drawn into the conversation in spite of himself. "Why did you take a drawing class in the first place if you're so bad?"

A conspiratorial grin played at the corners of her mouth, inviting him to share her mirth. "My grandmother has certain expectations about ladylike behavior. Let me say this much: I am _not_ a lady."

Kenshin remembered cinnamon kisses and the heated press of bare skin, and decided he had more than ample evidence of that. "Drawing, dancing, and languages?" he guessed.

"Right in one," Kaoru said; her small smile bloomed into a cheeky grin. "How'd you know?"

"My mom made me take etiquette classes when I was in elementary." Kenshin said. "I will absolutely never forget Miss Manners."

"Ooh!" Kaoru gave a theatrical shudder. " 'Miss Manners'? Was she a terror?"

"She was a skinny old hag with a pince-nez and the evil eye from Hell," Kenshin admitted.

"She sounds like one of my great-aunts," Kaoru said. "Did they make you wear a suit?"

"Yes!" Kenshin groaned.

"Grandmother makes us dress for dinner too, when we're at home in England," Kaoru said. "Hey, you look tired. Ready to go home?"

"Sure." Kenshin said. He sat back as Kaoru packed the scraps and trash into the paper bag they'd come in, then turned on the car and the radio to some soft classical.

"Just get comfortable," Kaoru said, adjusting her rearview mirror. "Take a little nap if you want. We'll be home soon."

"Alright." Kaoru's seats were comfortably cool, the leather as soft as butter. Kenshin rested his head against the window, eyes half-lidded, and watched the flashes of the car behind them occasionally in the side-view mirror.

Streetlights flicked by at regular intervals, getting further and further apart as thin pinpoints of stars and a waxing gibbous moon began to dominate the sky. He could hear Kaoru's gentle breathing and the purr of the engine beneath the soft strains of _Prelude a la Nuit_.

They turned onto the Hohenzollern Castle drive, and the lights of the car behind them went out.

_Wait. The lights went out? They didn't turn?_

He stirred and twisted to look out the back window, peering out through the darkness.

Moonlight flashed on metal, and Kenshin realized that the other car had turned off its headlights and was following them up the drive.

Kenshin's mind flashed to another night in faraway Kyoto, following a Shogunate official on catlike feet before dousing the lantern to swoop in for the kill.


	16. Through a Glass, Darkly

Thank you again to my reviewers! Didn't want to leave you hanging too long, so here is the next chapter.

Warnings for a bit more language than usual.

* * *

_"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known_." 1 Corinthians 13:12, KJV

* * *

"Kaoru," Kenshin said, "We're being followed."

She didn't turn to look, though her hands tightened on the wheel. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Kenshin said. "There's a black pickup about four, five hundred yards behind us."

Keeping her eyes firmly on the road, Kaoru fished in her purse and removed her phone, keeping it as close to her body as possible while she punched the speed dial and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Daddy? There's someone following me. It's a black truck. Yeah." She glanced casually into the rearview mirror. "I don't see any, but it doesn't mean they don't have them. Okay, got it."

Phone now tucked into the cup holder, Kaoru said, "My dad and Uncle Seijuro are coming. Dad said it could be nothing, but…." She didn't finish the thought.

Despite the tension in the vehicle, thick enough to cut with a knife, Kaoru didn't speed up. The needle on the speedometer stayed firmly on thirty-five miles an hour, and the truck stayed behind them at the same distance.

Without warning a half-dozen floodlights lit the front lawn of the castle. Hiko and Saito were standing on the smooth grass, swords drawn. Kaoru put on a sudden burst of speed, sending up a spray of gravel from her squealing tires. A couple of cracks sounded, and the back left-side passenger window exploded in a shower of glass.

"They have guns!" Kenshin shouted, realizing belatedly the redundancy of that statement.

"I know!" Kaoru said, spinning the wheel so that the Volvo skidded in a semi-circle on the lawn. Kenshin caught a glimpse of Shishou leaping over the car while Saitou swerved around it, one palm slapping the trunk. Kaoru slammed on the brakes, throwing both of them forward; Kenshin fumbled with his seatbelt and threw himself out of the car before it came to a complete stop.

His feet hit the ground and he spun into it, using the momentum to turn himself toward the fight unfolding around the black pickup. His master moved like a whirlwind through the five gunmen while Saitou stalked between, making brutally short work of whatever Shishou left upright. Waiting in the wings were Sano and Aoshi—_Backup?_ He wondered wildly. _What are they going to do that those two can't?_

"Himura! Get over here!" Aoshi called. Kenshin could see Kaoru already sprinting in their direction, her attention split between her goal and him. She gestured wildly, her face twisted with exasperation. "Himura!" Aoshi said again. "Hiko and Saitou can handle this!"

Of course they could. Kenshin knew that. Why, then, did he have this feeling…?

Like a bloodhound, he swung his eyes and senses back and forth, trying to pinpoint the source of his nebulous distress. A buzz like a fly grated on the edge of his _ki_, irritating but just out of sight. Something out the corner of his eye flashed, and Kenshin spun. At the edge of the floodlights where blackness reclaimed the white lawn into yawning void, something moved.

"Aoshi! _Sword_!" Kenshin cried desperately. He recognized the blank, yawning emptiness of that energy signature—it was the malevolence of a psychopath, and he was _dead_ without a weapon!

Aoshi didn't pause. He darted into the house, and Kenshin struggled to keep his gaze on the shadowy form lurking on the edge of the light. It was the longest thirty-three seconds of his life before Aoshi returned, sprinting across the lawn before he skidded to a stop ten yards away, tossing Kenshin's own sheathed _katana_, the one he had been using in training,in a long arc. Kenshin snatched it out of the air, noting out the corner of his eye that Sano had joined them, fists upraised.

The shadow stepped into the bright floodlights, revealing a slender dark-haired young man no older than Kenshin. His body language was relaxed, one hand resting casually on his sword, big grin plastered on his face.

"Battousai-_san_!" He cried, apparently delighted. "It's been ages—I heard you haven't been well."

The most prudent course of action seemed to be to remain silent; it was a tactic Battousai had used often in the Bakumatsu to conceal information and unnerve an opponent. He had an uneasy feeling, however, that it wouldn't work on this cheerful opponent.

"Perhaps you are still unwell?" the young man said, a frown creasing his round baby face. "That's too bad. I've been sent to kill you, you see, and it'd be a shame if you couldn't at least put up a decent fight."

Again, Kenshin refused to answer, but he sank into a _battoujutsu_ stance.

"Seta Soujiro," the young man said, mirroring Kenshin's form. "Tenken, Makoto-_ryu_."

"Himura Kenshin," he replied, "Battousai, Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_. Go back the way you came, or die."

"We'll see!" Soujiro said, and _moved_.

_So fast_! Kenshin's own sword keened from its sheath, striking back against the lethal onslaught. He thought he heard a shout—perhaps his name, perhaps only a scream—before the jarring impact of his sword smashing into Soujiro's. A shriek of metal on metal ripped through the night; with a move that his body remembered and his conscious mind didn't, Kenshin spun, using the momentum of his _battoujutsu_. His vision narrowed to a single point on his target's neck, a place he knew viscerally would cleave between vertebrae and remove head from shoulders in one clean sweep.

He felt the slightest tug of resistance, and knew that his edge had kissed flesh, but it didn't have the satisfying _clunch_ of a deep, killing bite. In a motion that was purely instinct, Kenshin whipped his metal _saya_ up and smashed it into his opponent's skull, the impact vibrating up his arm.

Panting with exertion—he didn't know if he could follow up with another strike if he wanted to—Kenshin paused to survey his handiwork. Soujiro was on his hands and knees, a monstrous purple goose egg rising behind his right ear: He was conscious, but only just, shaking his head as though woozy.

"You're good," Soujiro said, a look of surprise and curiosity replacing his blank grin. "Better than we anticipated."

Soujiro got to his feet, and Kenshin gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands—the Tenken was still in possession of his own weapon, and therefore still dangerous.

"_Shaine_!" The name was a sound of desperation, torn from a voice teetering on the edge of despair. Beth was running full tilt across the lawn, right on Kenshin's master's heels (and Shishou's expression was somewhere between carven stone and a thunderstorm front) and suddenly Soujiro had that creepy, almost-happy Cheshire expression back on.

"We're about to have more company than I appreciate," Soujiro said. "See you soon, Battousai!"

With that unquiet promise, he turned and disappeared into the forest. Aoshi, with an unreadable look at Kenshin, took off between the trees after him.

"Are you alright?" Shishou demanded, his bloody sword gleaming in the light. Beth peered into the trees, wringing her hands and biting her lip. There were tears glittering in the corners of her eyes.

"I'm fine," Kenshin said absently. His mind was elsewhere.

"_Kaoru-_dono_'s voice just now…"_

"_In the meantime, could you spare some bandaging?"_

"_If you're strong you live, if you're weak you die. It's a natural law of the universe."_

"Look at his eyes," said a jaded, smoke-roughened voice. "That's not your apprentice, Seijuro. That's the Battousai."

_Yes_, Kenshin thought. "_Hitokiri wa hitokiri_." He wasn't completely sure what the words meant, but they felt right.

"Not necessarily," Shishou said, trading a significant glance with Saito. "Kenshin, sheathe your sword. The Tenken's gone."

Black humor. _They're frightened of me. Surely they understand that that they're not a threat, that I wouldn't hurt them?_

_Well…_ the echo of a fanged grin. _Perhaps the wolf_.

"Has he lost it?" Sano's whisper was a bit too loud, and probably intended to be humorous, but it fell flat.

"I'm quite sane," Kenshin said coolly, sheathing the _katana_ in a smooth, familiar motion. He turned to stalk away, but fatigue hit him like a brick wall and he stumbled.

With uncanny precision an arm snaked around his chest, providing a firm and solid bulwark against tumbling to the ground. "Wouldn't want the Revolution's finest to fall on his face, ne?" Sano's voice was warm, his tone making the remark gentle ribbing instead of mocking.

"M'alright," Kenshin slurred. The yard wasn't _quite_ spinning—it was rocking, like a ship on the high seas. The motion was making him sick.

"Hiko!" Sano called. "I think he overdid it-"

"Inside, all of you," Shishou barked. "We're too exposed with the Tenken still at large."

"C'mon, Kenshin." Sano said companionably. "Inside we go."

Beth was still staring into the dark trees, still as a statue. Tears glistened on her face, but she seemed unaware of them. Saito leaned over and murmured something in her ear; she shot him a venomous look, but turned back to the house.

"Where's Kaoru-_dono_?" Kenshin suddenly realized he hadn't seen her since the fight began—

"I'm here." Kaoru drew up beside him, slipping her hand around his waist. "You're alright? He didn't hit you? I thought I saw…."

"I'm not hurt," Kenshin assured her. "Who _was_ he?"

Sano said, "I have no idea," at the same time Kaoru said, "Seta Soujiro. One of Shishio's men."

Giving Kaoru a sheepish look, Sano said, "You know we're not supposed to say anything."

"I'll say whatever I want," Kaoru retorted.

"We'll have to talk to Hiko, I guess." Sano gave Kenshin an apologetic look.

Kenshin was in no position to argue. The adrenaline rush that had been sustaining him was draining away, leaving a shaky limpness in its place. Kaoru and Sano half-supported, half-dragged him into the house. It was softly lit and seemed surreal after the brightly-lit fight outside.

He sank gratefully onto one of the lounges in the foyer, watching blankly as Beth passed him. Saitou had a hand on her elbow; he looked displeased, but also a little sympathetic. Kenshin would have captured the moment on paper for posterity if he'd had even an ounce of energy left.

Kneeling down so they were at eye level, Kaoru put a hand on his knee, eyes shining with concern. "You sure you're okay? I can get you something…"

"No, I'm fine," Kenshin said automatically. Then, "No, wait, I want to talk to Shishou."

Sano bounced to his feet. "I'll get him!"

"Rooster-brain." Kaoru shook her head affectionately.

"So who's this Seta guy, exactly?" Kenshin asked. He blinked several times to clear the gray blurs from his vision.

"He's Shishio's right-hand henchman," Kaoru said. Then, very softly, "He's also Beth's son."

"Her _son_? Wait, _what_?"

"Yeah," Kaoru nodded. "Shishio kidnapped him when he was eight or nine. It's a really bad deal."

"God," Kenshin breathed. "No wonder…"

"Don't say anything," Kaoru admonished. "It doesn't help and it just upsets her."

"Yeah… no, definitely not." Kenshin said. "How did he end up… like _that_?"

"An unfortunate series of events," Shishou said, coming up beside him. "Your form during that fight was sloppy, by the way. You expended unnecessary energy."

"Yes, Shishou." He'd heard it before, he'd hear it again; never mind that the whole point, which was to _stay alive_, had been accomplished. "But why was there a fight in the first place?"

Shishou scowled. "Shishio wants you dead, Kenshin—you don't remember, but you defeated him in your past life. Thoroughly. I'm certain he wants to remove you as an obstacle to his world takeover."

"That is not going to happen," Kaoru said, her hand tightening around Kenshin's to the point of pain. She made the statement sound like a foregone conclusion.

"No," Shishou agreed, slouching against the wall. "But we do need to take precautions. I'm going to send you all to stay with Lady Samuels."

Kaoru's eyes widened, and she whispered, "Not Grandma."

"Yes, Grandma." Shishou was utterly unsympathetic. "We'll do it in the morning, quietly, and Shishio need never be the wiser."

"So wait," Kenshin said, feeling like he'd missed something vital in this conversation. "A terrorist wants me dead because, what, I beat him in a fight two hundred years ago?"

"In a nutshell," Shishou deadpanned.

Kaoru rolled her eyes. "Shishio was an anarchist in Meiji Japan. You, my dad, and Sano defeated him and his allies. He was going to set fire to Kyoto, bomb Tokyo, and overthrow the government."

"So I killed him." Kenshin said. In spite of all the people he remembered killing, that didn't seem quite right.

Shishou shook his head. "He overstressed a medical condition in your duel. He killed himself; it was only coincidence that he was fighting you at the time."

"But why does he want me dead now?"

"Shishio's ambitions have grown," Shishou said. "He's hijacked elements of the extremist Muslim community in an attempt to conquer the world; he understands that there is one organization, and only a few swordsmen, capable of defeating him. You're one of them, and you're vulnerable. It's basic strategy."

"And that's why he sent Seta to assassinate me," Kenshin realized.

Shishou nodded grimly. "So we remove you from the equation and take offensive action. The Tenken has been high on my list of priorities for some time now, and he just got bumped up. Depriving Shishio of his best hit man should take some of the wind out of his sails."

"Enough!" Kaoru got to her feet. "Kenshin, come on, you don't need to worry about any of this right now. You're _gray_. Everything will still be here in the morning."

"Including me," Kenshin said firmly. He set his jaw and dug in his metaphorical heels; arguing with Shishou was rarely fruitful, and never easy.

"No." Shishou said. "Out of the question."

"I'm not going to run away," Kenshin said. "There's no point putting other people in danger just to protect me. Send the others away, sure, but I'll stay. Bait, incentive, whatever you want to call it. You can set a trap, deal with it that way."

"This is not up for debate," Shishou said, straightening from his slouch against the pillar. "You _are_going to England, and if you try to refuse I will tie you up, drug you, and possibly beat the living daylights out of you. Not necessarily in that order. This is going to be a delicate operation, and until you are healthy and fully trained, you are a liability. Am I clear?"

Kenshin's face flamed. Liability hell!

"Kenshin," Kaoru put a hand on his shoulder. "He's right, you know. We won't even be in England that long, just enough time for all this to blow over. Right, Uncle Seijuro?"

"Probably," Shishou allowed.

"I'm not going to have other people endangering themselves for me," Kenshin said. He knew he was being difficult, but why couldn't they see that he was also right? Hiding was only going to lengthen the conflict, not resolve it.

"Stubborn as a goddamn pig…" Shishou muttered. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Now go to bed before I _put_ you to bed!"

"No," Kenshin stood slowly, ignoring the way the hall swam for a moment. "We're not finished."

"Kenshin, Aoshi probably needs help tracking Soujiro," Kaoru said. "Uncle Seijuro's really busy, and he said you guys could talk tomorrow."

Kenshin counted silently to ten, and then did it again. "Fine. But I'm not going anywhere."

Shishou rolled his eyes extravagantly. "Get going!"

Kaoru did just that, taking off down the hall and dragging Kenshin with her. Shishou headed off in the other direction, already pulling out a cell phone and barking orders into it in German.

_Dragging me seems to be a specialty of hers_, Kenshin thought. Kaoru's deathgrip on his hand didn't slacken as they started up the stairs. "I'm losing feeling in my fingers," he complained.

Loosening her grip a bit, Kaoru opened the door to his apartment. "Sorry. Why don't you go shower? I'll just hang out here and watch TV for a bit."

Opening his mouth to decline, Kenshin realized he really did want a shower. With a sigh of disgust, he went to the bathroom and stripped.

The hot water pounding his on his sore arms and shoulders was soothing. The muscles, so long underused, were protesting their earlier acrobatics, and Kenshin had a feeling it would be worse in the morning. In the meantime, however, the heat was helping work out the ache. He scrubbed out his long hair, rinsed off, and rested his forehead against the glass door. The cool was a pleasant contrast on his skin.

Naked, he stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. A pale flash in the mirror stopped him cold in his tracks.

The pale apparition's eyes were wide. Hesitantly, Kenshin raised a hand, and the ghost in the silvered glass mimicked the motion.

_That's __**me**_, he realized, tracing his fingertips down his jaw. He barely recognized himself; too-pale except where his livid, purpling bruises were turning green at the edges, and his eyes sunk into his head with fatigue and ringed with puffy blue hollows.

The latest bout of illness had stripped the shine from his hair and the glow from his skin, leaving lank like blood spilling over his pallor. Every spare ounce of fat had been burned from his frame, leaving muscles and tendons in stark relief. He slid a palm slowly down his ribs, each protruding knob rippling under his fingers. When had he gotten so thin?

_I've never been vain_, Kenshin thought grimly, _but this is pretty bad._

"KENSHIN!" Kaoru pounded on the door. "Did you not HEAR me?"

"C-coming!" He practically threw on his pajamas. He wouldn't put it past her to come in after him!

Kaoru had changed into her tank-top and shorts ensemble again, apparently her preferred sleepwear. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, her air was somewhat… predatory.

"Ready to go to sleep?" Kaoru said.

"Yeah." Kenshin fidgeted nervously. "Are you, uh… going to go to your room?"

"Nope!" Kaoru patted the comforter next to her. "I'm staying with you." She winked conspiratorially. "Don't tell my dad. C'mon, I know you're exhausted."

Nerves twanging, Kenshin crawled up onto the bed under the covers and curled up on his side. The spot Kaoru had vacated was nice and warm, the pillow squashy and soft; his head felt heavy.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Kaoru got under the covers and wriggled up next to him. She spooned against his back, tucking his head under her chin and snaking and arm around his waist. Said hand snuck under his t-shirt and a couple of fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pajama pants.

Kenshin tensed, every muscle in his body rigid as steel; all she did was snuggle, warm and pliant as a kitten. Perhaps if he hadn't been exhausted, something might have happened, but as it was, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder and murmured, "Sleep tight."

And somewhere in the downward spiral to oblivious nepenthe, he thought he heard, "-ve you…"

oOo

Hiko took a deep breath; of all his unpleasant tasks to perform this evening, this one was the worst of them all. Crying women were _hell_.

A crash sounded from the kitchen. Hiko opened the door, bracing himself for catastrophe.

Beth stalked from one end of the kitchen to the other; half a dozen pans were on the floor at one end, and a white coating of powder on a wall where a canister of flour had shattered against it.

"Goddammit," she muttered, gripping her hair at the roots with both hands. "God-damning-dammit!"

"Beth-"

"Shut _up_. Shut up shut _up_. He was this close. _This close_, and he's _gone_."

"We're going to get him back."

Beth looked at him with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Her nostrils were flared, and there was a flush on her neck and chest; one hand hooked into a claw. Her nails had been bitten to the quick, and frankly, she looked more than half mad. "That is my _child_. It's been ten years and that was my first glimpse of _my child_ in those woods. Damn you, Seijuro. Damn you to _hell_."

"Beth, we're getting close," he said softly. "Don't give up on me now when we're so close."

She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I-" Deep, shuddery breaths. "You _know_ what it's like to lose a child. Only your child actually _wants_ you. Mine… my boy…"

Seijuro did not speak. There was nothing to say; she was right.

Instead he went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of good Jack Daniels. No glasses, just the bottle, and he opened it and handed it to her.

Beth gave a watery laugh. "Always the same with you, isn't it?"

She turned, reared back, and smashed the bottle against the stainless steel refrigerator, a wet explosion of black glass and amber liquor.

"Go." She said softly. "Just go."

Seijuro bowed to her, the polished grace of a defeated opponent. And he left.


	17. Results

There is no excuse for this four-month wait except that Real Life hit me with a really big stick. I apologize, and will get better. That is all. If you are still reading, many thanks!

* * *

"In life, we have either reasons or results." –Peter McWilliams

* * *

"Nothing," Hajime growled, kicking a chair with unmitigated viciousness. "Not a damn thing!"

"You really expected the Tenken to leave you a sign?" Seijuro mocked an eyebrow, mocking the logical fallacy. "He's too good for that."

"I'd hoped for at least a slip-up from his flunkies," Hajime admitted. "Nothing. They're all Arabs with established terrorist backgrounds from Hezbollah. They stole a nondescript local vehicle and clothes from a house frau's laundry line. No personal effects. Even the weapons had their serial numbers scraped off."

"Any chance of tracing them by style?" Seijuro asked.

Hajime was shaking his head before Seijuro even finished the sentence. "They're using Khaybar KH2002s. Utterly unremarkable."

In a sort of irritated tic, Hajime folded his arms across his chest and drummed his fingers on his elbow. "I don't like the idea of sending the kids to my mother," he finally said.

"Because it's a bad idea or because you don't like your mother?"

"Both," Hajime said. "Mum will eat them alive—and we're fully capable of keeping them safe. Just put the place in lockdown."

Seijuro shook his head. "There have already been two assassination attempts in the course of two days. Shishio knows where we are and that we have Kenshin. Putting them under the radar is the best way to get him off our backs long enough to get some information and get our feet under us."

"And give Himura some time to recover, ne?" Hajime asked shrewdly.

"Yes," Seijuro said. "I think he and Tokio will get along well. Not to mention the rest of your kids… and your nieces and nephews…"

"Dunno why Mum tolerates that circus," Hajime said. "But she and Kaoru are barely civil with each other. I doubt Himura will fare any better."

"Kenshin has a particular gift for people," Seijuro said.

"Oh yes, I forgot—he has _your_ affection," Hajime groused. "Charming the Right Honorable the Countess Samuels ought to be a breeze. Fine, they'll go, but I'll not be held responsible for the trauma they suffer at that woman's hand."

"Fine, fine, I take full responsibility!"

"You're calling my mother, then?"

"You owe me."

Hajime barked a laugh. "I'll pay you back by _not_ killing Battousai."

"You realize he's a teenager."

"You realize that he dropped me into no fewer than three rivers during the Bakumatsu?"

"Pitiful." Seijuro shook his head as Hajime headed for the door. "You're still bitter over that?"

"No less than you are." Hajime said. "Tell my mother hello."

Seijuro resisted the urge to throttle Hajime as the door closed behind him. There were days….

Well, he'd make the call, then head out to help Aoshi track Soujiro. It was nearly midnight, and he'd set in motion everything else that he could for now. In the morning they'd go to England, and set about fixing the cock-up that was the past week.

* * *

Kenshin woke as Kaoru was slipping out of bed. The clock read two fifteen, meaning that they'd only gone to bed four hours ago.

"Go back to sleep," Kaoru whispered. "I'm just not tired yet—going to go watch the telly."

"Alright," Kenshin said. He watched her go, then rolled over onto his back. He was exhausted, but suddenly restless. Something didn't feel right.

He dozed for a while, tossing and turning back and forth. When his phone lit up and buzzed, it sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. The number was blocked, but acting on hunch, he answered it anyway. "Hello?"

"Battousai-_san_." The voice was smooth, oily, confident. "This is Shishio Makoto. I have someone here who wants to talk to you."

"Kenny?"

Kenshin's guts turned to ice. "Mom? Mom, are you okay?"

"I—I, yes, I'm alright… He—he wants me to read something," Mom said. "Kenny, I-"

"_Just read it!_" An exasperated man's voice, not Shishio's, tinny with distortion.

Voice trembling, Mom began to read. "Tell no one about this phone call. We have purchased a ticket for you from Frankfurt Airport to New York City departing tomorrow morning at seven AM. Be there, or…" her voice quavered. "Well, no need to make threats yet. But it would be a shame if your mother weren't able to enjoy our hospitality any more."

A pause, then Mom said in a soft, surprisingly steady voice, "I love you. Don't come here. _Don't_, Kenneth."

A _crack_ came over the line, and a cry of pain; Kenshin didn't need to be there to know that his mother had just been backhanded.

"Don't touch her!" Kenshin was almost yelling into the speaker. "Don't you DARE touch her!"

"Don't worry, Himura-_san_," Shishio was back on the line, obscene in his thin veneer of civilized behavior. "We'll take good care of our guest. I suppose we can expect you?"

The line went dead before Kenshin could answer.

For a moment, he was too stunned to move. They had his _mother_, and they were holding her hostage.

He had to get to New York.

Kenshin went into the house, upstairs to his room and began filling a backpack with the necessary items: a change of clothes, the small amount of cash he had, and his passport. He went to his closet and got an _obi_, winding it around his waist before thrusting his _katana_ through; a leather belt would have sufficed, but he'd found it decreased infinitesimally the speed of his draw. Seconds, and fractions of seconds, were the difference between life and failure in a duel.

He'd need a cover to get the sword on a plane. What would work… what would they buy…?

Grandma Harris' antique business. Of course. A quick boot-up of the computer and he had a copy of the letterhead of Emily's Ancient Trifles, complete with information authorizing him to carry an antique _katana _from Germany to a buyer in New England. He also printed off a copy of the TSA paperwork he'd need. Hopefully the airline wouldn't lose this bit of luggage, but he'd get there as early as he could to ensure the sword would make it onto the plane. He grabbed a case out of the closet to transport the sword safely.

_What else, what else?_ He was forgetting something, something major.

_Pursuit_.

Of course Shishou and the others would try to stop him. Kenshin left a note on the desk that he was going out for some training and planned to be gone until at least noon; then he shrugged on his jacket and laced up his boots, and slipped out the window, heading for the hangar. The grounds were eerily empty, drenched in moonlight almost as bright as day.

Kenshin slipped into the private jet's cockpit, surveying the bank of electronics before him. He didn't know enough about planes to do any kind of subtle sabotage, so…

A plunge of his sword and a twist of his wrist sent up a shower of sparks, obliterating one panel completely. Just to be sure he did a couple of others that looked important, then headed for the garage.

He entered the passcode on the key cupboard and removed the ring marked Volvo II—one of Shishou's many cars. He pulled out into the drive, then went back inside. There were too many cars to disable them all, so he did the next best thing and busted the hatch on the garage door. It wasn't much, nowhere near enough, but it might slow them down a bit.

There was a soft sound, and Kenshin spun, heart in his throat; it was Sano, leaning nonchalant against the Volvo. "Hey, man. Where ya headed?"

No! No no no no no no no! _Damn it!_

"Couldn't sleep," Kenshin said evasively, mouth dry. He swallowed twice. "I decided to go for a drive."

"Want some company?" Sano asked.

"No thanks," Kenshin said. "I should be back in a couple of hours."

"Why do you have a backpack?" Sano asked, suspicion dawning across his face. "And your sword? That's not-"

So much for bluffing his way out of this one. Fast as lightning, he drew the katana, intending to bash that thick skull into unconsciousness, but Sano dodged; the butt of the katana dealt him only a glancing blow above his ear and sent him down, clearly woozy.

Kenshin grabbed a roll of duct tape off a nearby shelf and wrapped it around Sano's wrists before he could protest. Once he had Sano immobilized he'd knock him out the rest of the way and be gone.

"What's the matter with you!" Sano yelped as Kenshin pulled the tape tighter.

"Nothing that concerns you," Kenshin said shortly, pinching a nerve in Sano's wrist that vague memory said would stop his fingers wriggling. "But I can't have you following me."

"Dude, if this is some kind of escape attempt-"

"It's not."

Sano seemed to realize that something was really wrong. "What happened?"

"Shishio has my mother." The words spilled out unbidden, and as soon as Kenshin said them he knew he'd made a mistake. He couldn't leave them any clues to follow him!

"What? Whoah!" Sano began wriggling again in his bonds, shoulders rolling. "How do you know? What happened?"

Kenshin set to work taping up Sano's ankles. "They have her. I have to get her back."

"Kenshin, you can't go-"

"Do not tell me what I can and can't do!" Kenshin hissed.

"I'm not-" Sano made an abortive motion that might have been running his hands through his hair as he sighed. "Listen, Hiko's the head of a task force that's supposed to deal with Shishio and his terrorists. He can send a whole troop of soldiers to rescue your mom. Shishio's dangerous, and I know Hiko won't want you to try to take them on. It's a trap!"

"I know that." Kenshin said. Of course it was a trap; why else would a terrorist organization kidnap one's mother? "And I don't care."

"You're not making sense!" Sano wailed. "Jesus, Kenshin!"

"Hold still, and this will hurt less," Kenshin said, adjusting his grip on the katana. Head wounds that caused unconsciousness without unnecessary damage were tricky to do exactly right.

"Wait, wait a minute!" Sano scooted, eyeing Kenshin's sword like it was the harbinger of the Apocalypse. "I'll make you a deal. If you knock me out I'll wake up in like, an hour, and be up at the house in two, and we'll be right on your tail. Or you can take me with you, and I can be backup."

Kenshin paused. Two were easier to track than one, but his subconscious whispered how right it would be to have Sano fighting by his side—someone he could depend on, without fear or hesitation. But…

"Where's your phone?" he asked.

"Back pocket," Sano said, then yelped as Kenshin's fingers fished it out, along with his wallet. "Hey!"

"They can track us with these," Kenshin said, putting Sano's phone in his pocket with his own and opening the wallet. "You've got your passport—good." He knelt and cut the tape on Sano's wrists and ankles, but brought the lanky boy up short with the blade of his sword laid on Sano's collar. "Listen to me. I will take your deal, but _this is my mother_. If you double-cross me I won't hesitate to put you in a shallow grave. Got it?"

Sano gulped, but he nodded.

"Get in the car."

* * *

Sano stared at the lunatic redhead in the driver's seat and made a sincere wish that he'd never gotten out of bed this morning. Middle of the night. Whatever. Next time he heard suspicious noises outside his window, he'd just roll over and go back to sleep.

They'd been driving for the better part of two hours; he'd slept for a little while, but his head was still throbbing from the blow Kenshin had delivered earlier in spite of two Tylenol and four ibuprofen purchased at a gas station. Kenshin had returned Sano's wallet, minus his credit cards, and thrown both of their phones in the back of a truck with a French license plate driving west, so that was the end of that. From a sneaky perspective, it made sense; the phones could be tracked with GPS even if they were turned off, and if Hiko was dumb enough to follow the false trail it might take them a couple of hours to figure out the mistake. Not that Hiko would be that dumb.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"About an hour outside of the airport, according to the map." Kenshin said. "Our plane leaves at seven. I already called and made arrangements for your ticket."

"How?" Sano asked.

"While you were asleep." Kenshin said. "Be quiet now."

Sano sank into an injured, dignified silence. If Kenshin noticed he definitely didn't care.

Over the next hour, Sano was reminded how busy Frankfurt was. The traffic was awful, of course, and finally Kenshin pulled over at a petrol station and locked the keys in the car.

"We can move faster on foot," he said to Sano's incredulous expression. "Try to keep up."

The gaping took a backseat to doing exactly that—keeping up. Kenshin navigated the city streets with uncanny instinct, referring to the map with occasional laser-focus. It took every ounce of Sano's attention to keep Kenshin in range. For a pretty-boy with blazingly scarlet hair, Kenshin had the most disconcerting ability to just vanish. He wove through the crowds of people like a grim shadow, eyes focused intently forward.

Not that Sano thought Kenshin wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. The person before him was no awkward, soft-spoken teenager; he was the _hitokiri_, hyper-aware and dangerous, with a focus of _target_ and _path-to-target_. All else was either an asset or an obstacle. Sano was uncomfortably aware of how close he had come to being an obstacle himself, and removed like one.

An iron filing to a lodestone, they quickly ended up at Frankfurt Airport. Kenshin checked his sword in with security, checked his backpack and endured a pat-down, then picked a quiet corner of the terminal in which to wait. The flight was, miraculously, somehow on time, and they'd be leaving in about half an hour. Sano noticed that the nook Kenshin had chosen had a clear view of all the entrances and windows, as well as a direct path to the exit.

Paranoid much?

"You're like a fricken' tornado, you know that?" Sano asked, feeling a touch dazed.

Kenshin shrugged, scanning the airport as though he expected enemies to pop out of the tile. Sano was pretty sure they were safe in such a big crowd, but Kenshin apparently didn't agree.

"You hungry?" Sano asked abruptly. They'd left the manor house at one AM, and it was nearing eleven thirty. To Sano's knowledge Kenshin hadn't eaten since supper the night before, and he (Sano) had a hollow place in his middle that was making itself vigorously known. He gestured at the McDonald's kiosk. "I'm gonna go get something to eat. You want anything?"

"…just coffee." Kenshin said. "Black."

Sano resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. "Any _food_?"

"No."

Now he did roll his eyes. "Fine. I'll get you some fries or something."

"Don't forget to pay with cash," Kenshin reminded him. "They can track us if we use credit cards."

"Already stole my wallet…" Sano muttered. Kenshin glared. "Okay, okay! Geez."

He ordered a couple of cheeseburgers, fries, a tub of Coke, and a sixteen ounce cup of plain coffee. Airports being what they were it cost double and took twice as long to get to him.

Kenshin accepted the warm drink with a nod, sipping while he watched over the lid. Sano couldn't imagine that kind of hypervigilance, how exhausting it must be. It was exhausting just to _watch_.

"_Boarding flight 666 to New York. Einsteigen Flug 666 bis New York._"

"That's our cue," Kenshin said, downing the rest of his brew. "Let's roll, Sano."

* * *

Next chapter: Kaoru is mad, and Soujiro is affably evil...


	18. Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Okay, people, real life is a you-know-what... but this chapter is done, and the next is well on its way. Enjoy! I don't own it.

* * *

_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_

_Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

-_Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_, by Dylan Thomas

* * *

Yawning, Kaoru hit the power on the remote, and the droning voice of the History Channel narrator blipped into silence. Nothing like a couple of hours of shaky black-and-white clips on TV to put a girl to sleep….

She stood and stretched, arms all the way over her head then down behind, spine popping pleasantly. The den was very quiet; the whole _house_ was quiet, in the way that meant maybe Dad and Uncle Seijuro and Aoshi had finally turned in for a couple hours of shut-eye. She just hoped Beth was able to sleep, after what happened to Soujiro.

The door of Kenshin's apartment was closed. She sighed, resting one palm against the cool wood of the door frame for a moment. She wasn't surprised that he was sleeping like the dead, really, considering that he'd been in the hospital day before yesterday. Why, _why_ was he so stubborn? Stupid boy….

She opened the door, and knew immediately that something was wrong. The lights were on, and one of the cabinets in the kitchen was ajar; the air felt empty. Heart suddenly pounding, Kaoru dashed into the bedroom, yanking the covers back.

The bed was unoccupied, and cold.

Hand going involuntarily to her mouth, Kaoru tried to breathe. There might be an explanation. Kenshin could easily be taking a walk, getting a cup of something hot downstairs. Maybe they'd missed each other—maybe he had a nightmare and went to talk to Uncle Seijuro. Any number of things.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket she hit Kenshin's speed dial. It rang four times before going, unanswered, to voice mail.

Still no real reason to worry.

Then she found the note, on the desk in the studio.

_Kaoru—_

_I couldn't sleep, so I decided to go for a run. I took some breakfast with me, and I'll be back before noon. Don't worry about me. I'll be back._

_-Kenshin_

Go for a run? Go for a _run_? How stupid did he think she was?

Something was up. Something significant enough that Kenshin was trying to deceive them, trying to reassure her that he'd return when he'd never before promised any such thing.

She hadn't forgotten the warm summer evening, more than a century ago, when Kenshin had last answered the siren call to arms. He'd been proud, she could see it in the tilt of his head, and determined, in the set of his shoulders; his feet had been slow, at first, not eager for the road, but then moved faster, resolute. This letter felt the same way, even if the words were innocuous. Dropping the slip of paper, she took off for the security booth at a dead run. Normally Aoshi's territory, the security both showed every camera at Hohenzollern, the ones inside and out.

Kaoru scrolled back over the last couple of hours, looking for any trace of red hair or a slim frame slipping out a door or window. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

That clinched it. If Kenshin hadn't been sneaking, he would have appeared on the security system. And if he was sneaking, it meant there was something far more sinister going on than a midnight run.

Runaway or kidnap, the world was too unkind a place to leave one of their own on its dubious mercy. Kaoru pushed Uncle Seijruo's dial icon on her phone and waited for one ring, two—

The voice was gruffer than usual with lack of sleep, gravelly as a wounded winter bear. "Unless it's the Apocalypse, I'm going back to sleep."

"Please, Uncle Seijuro." Kaoru worked her dry throat. "Kenshin's missing."

* * *

Kenshin felt the bump as the plane's wheels hit the tarmac, and he consciously relaxed the muscles in his neck and jaw. He was that much closer to Shishio—that much closer to his mother. It was vital now to focus, to be ready. It would help if the icy ball of fear in the pit of his stomach would dissolve; it was a torsion that was part desperation, part gibbering terror, and a hundred percent guaranteed to get all of them killed.

He remembered the black ops he'd run for the Ishin Shishi. There had been rescue missions then, too, jailed Choshuu operatives to remove from Shinsengumi custody and frantic nights when the patrol group the next street over would _survive_ if only he could get there quickly enough to warn them. Any kind of emotion that interfered with rational thought and perfect hair-trigger reflexes had to be channeled, suppressed, and above all, controlled. If that made him a demon, so be it.

Sano came to with a snuffle as they pulled up to the terminal, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "We here?"

"Yes," Kenshin said, getting to his feet. He wanted to get out ahead of the little old people and the families with small children. Who knew whether time might be of the essence? "Let's move."

"D'you get any sleep?" Sano asked, stretching long limbs with a _crack_ and _pop_ as they came out of the tunnel. "You look like a zombie, man."

"No." Kenshin said. _I'll have time to sleep when I'm dead_.

Sanosuke shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He followed, blessedly silent, as Kenshin collected his sword from security.

"So what do we do now?" Sano asked as they stepped out into the cold, watery New York morning sunshine. "Did they give you a secret evil lair address or something?"

Kenshin scanned the street, one hand resting ready on the hilt of his katana. "Shishio made sure I got here, Sano—he's not going to leave us hanging."

There—that empty _ki_, a smile painted on a pottery mask. The crowd shifted and revealed Soujiro, standing on the curb with his hand tucked casually in his pockets. He looked fresh, rested, utterly comfortable and in his element. Kenshin's thumb loosened his sword in its sheath in a surge of cold fury, an involuntary snarl baring his teeth.

"Battousai-_san_—and Sagara-_san_!" Soujiro sounded delighted, as though meeting old friends after a long separation. "We've been expecting you. Please follow me, the car is waiting."

"You think we're going to get in a car with _you_?" Sano sputtered. "Like we'd really be that stupid-"

"We'll be safe enough until the end," Kenshin cut him off. If Soujiro really wanted them dead right this minute, he'd have just posted snipers on the surrounding rooftops, or nicked them with a poison dart. Kenshin had a sneaking suspicion that the history Shishou had told him was trying to repeat itself, and that Shishio didn't want an assassination, but a duel. "Now," he fixed Soujiro with a glare, holding onto the last fraying threads of his temper. "_What have you done with my mother?_"

Soujiro shrugged, guileless and disinterested. "When last I saw her, she was in excellent health. I'm sure Shishio-_sama_ will release her if you ask."

If anything, the blasé attitude raised Kenshin's hackles further. His mother—silly, delicate, and achingly innocent—was at the mercy of a band of sociopaths.

When Soujiro turned, leading them down the street, Kenshin followed. He'd play their game, but only so long as Elen Harris went untouched. Otherwise all bets were off, and God have mercy on their souls—because Kenshin would not.

Ever-courteous, Soujiro opened the back door of an unmarked white van—like a pit, like a hungry mouth—while Kenshin climbed in and sat on one of the benches bolted to the wall. Sano perched to his left, poised as though he planned to interpose himself bodily between Kenshin and Soujiro. The boy who called himself Tenken was utterly at his ease, leaning against the wall with both hands wrapped around his knee.

"So where are we headed, Cap'n Creep?" Sano demanded. He was practically vibrating with hostility, one hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. "To a field to shoot us?"

"No, no! Battousai-_san_ was entirely correct," Soujiro said genially. "Shishio-_sama_ has expressed an interest in settling their previous score. You're actually free to go if you like, Sagara-_san_."

Sano told Soujiro to do something anatomically unlikely, and Soujiro's eyes widened, clearly startled. "Well, alright…."

The rest of the trip was silent.

Kenshin made no attempt to keep track of the twisting and turning of the streets, or the speed of the vehicle. He knew they were traveling north-northwest, and that was enough. He guessed, in the back of his mind, that he probably wouldn't be in much need of a route back. Mom's life was the goal of this trip, not his own. Hopefully he'd be able to get Sano out, too. That was the best he could hope for, at this point.

The van rumbled to a stop, and hour and a half or so after they'd started. Soujiro held the door for them as Sano and Kenshin climbed out.

The countryside was green and idyllic, if empty. The compound squatting across the road, fifteen-foot-high gates open, was clearly not.

Kenshin paused, the coldly analytical _hitokiri_ in the back of his mind gauging the defenses. He sensed more than saw Sano stop beside him.

_The top of the fence is electrified_, Kenshin thought, _so I'll have to be careful if it comes to jumping it. Only four soldiers in those towers, covering the approach, and they're amateurs, they're trained on us instead of looking for an ambush._

The part of his mind that was still sixteen and in way over his head was thinking frantically, _They're not _soldiers_, they're not that much older than I am, just kids…_

The _hitokiri _continued his threat assessment: _guns on the towers overlooking the road, snipers in the windows, lines of soldiers standing at attention. Perhaps three hundred total, assuming there are no others waiting elsewhere as backup_.

Escape, if it was even an option at this point, was a slim to none chance.

"Sano." Even to his own ears his voice was cold and distant. "Leave now. You'll only slow me down at this point."

Harsh and cutting, perhaps, but necessary. Someone should be salvaged from this kamikaze mission.

Sano snorted. "Puh-leez. You're gonna have to do better than that."

Prepared to argue back, Kenshin paused when a figure stepped up to the gate.

_Yumi_, his subconscious whispered, and with the name came a breath of remembrance: bewilderment and loss. Why did this self-satisfied, clearly shallow woman make him think of Tomoe?

Ten or twelve paces from them, she stopped. Yumi's face was still the same, but her clothes were different. Instead of the low-cut, scandalous _kimono_ of an _oiran_, she wore a long, modest red dress with fluttery sleeves and a gauzy scarf over her hair.

"Yumi-_san_," he nodded to her. There; first move.

Yuni's full lips curved in a smirk and she said, "Battousai-_san_. Sagara -_san_. Shishio-_sama_ will be pleased you were able to make it." A broader smile was directed at their escort. "Soujiro-_kun_, well done."

Soujiro beamed at her. "Thanks!"

"No more games," Kenshin said. He remembered now, a cascade of images, the procession of Juppongatana they'd fought and his duel with Aoshi. He didn't plan to put up with it again. "Release my mother and take me to Shishio immediately."

"My, aren't we impatient," Yumi chuckled. The low, throaty sound was more appropriate to a tryst than a battle's opening engagement. "The deal was that Elen will be released after you fight Shishio-_sama_, not before. We're hardly stupid."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, _I beg to differ, _but all he told Yumi was, "Lead on, then." His knuckles had turned white from the pressure he was exerting on the katana's hilt.

With a bow that was within a hair's breadth of being mocking, Yumi gestured him through the gates, preceding them with a sauntering sway. Keeping his face impassive, Kenshin followed, Sanosuke at his side.

The lines of dark-clad soldiers on either side put him further on edge, partly because they themselves were straining at the bit to get to him. Hand held guns just a little too tight, fingers exerted a touch too much pressure on triggers, and the eyes that were too fervent followed too closely.

_Image and intimidation are three-quarters of victory,_ Kenshin reminded himself, remembering Katsura-_san's_ lessons so carefully disguised as conversation. He kept his eyes trained between Yumi's shoulder blades, relying on _ki_ sense, reflexes, and peripheral vision to warn of an attack. The slightest sign of nerves or aggression, Kenshin knew, would end his life in a hail of paranoid bullet fire.

"Shishio-_sama_ has looked forward to this day for some time," Yumi said, making a pretense at idle conversation.

"We've been waiting for it," Sano growled. Kenshin cursed him silently. _Idiot, she's up to something!_

"Have you?" Yumi said. Her tone—and more tellingly, her body language—said that she was completely at ease. This was her home turf, and she knew it. "I doubt Battousai-_san_ has."

Before Sano could tell an embarrassingly obvious lie, Kenshin said coldly, "I am prepared to do whatever is necessary to defend those under my protection."

"Well spoken," Yumi said softly. "'Whatever is necessary,' I like that."

They drew up to a large brick building. The metal doors had been thrown open, and a man was waiting on the steps, arms crossed.

For half an instant, Kenshin was caught off balance; he'd been expecting a mummy, a flaming creature out of a nightmare, and the man five steps above him simply wasn't.

Shishio was tall, swarthy, with a strong jaw—what women would call handsome, Kenshin supposed. He was clean-cut and dressed in a rather plain muscle shirt, bomber jacket, and loose pants. The unsheathed sword in his gloved hand glimmered in the light.

_Mugengin_, Kenshin remembered. _Something to do with fire. I have to be careful…._

"_Battousai._" Shishio exhaled the name as though tasting it. He grinned, and his eyes lit up with an unholy fire. "I have long anticipated this day."

"I can tell," Kenshin said, refusing to be impressed by theatrics. "Where is my mother?"

"Not far from here," Shishio said. The answer was maddeningly enigmatic, and it was clear he knew it. His shark-like grin widened.

"Deliver her to Sanosuke," Kenshin said, biting off each word in an attempt to keep his temper under control. "Allow them to leave unharmed. I'm here to fight you, but you _will_ let—them—go."

"I think not," Shishio said. "The only way you'll get to her is over my corpse."

With an icy foreknowledge, Kenshin realized, _He doesn't intend to let any of us leave here alive_.

"So be it." Kenshin said. He meant every word.

Throwing back his head, Shishio laughed out loud. "You've changed, haven't you? No gentle _rurouni_ protestations of peace. About time." He gestured to Yumi. "Come. This shall be a battle for the history books—the day Makoto Shishio began to rule the world."

In an act of utter arrogance, Shishio turned his back on them and went into the arena with Yumi on his arm. When Kenshin made to follow, Sano grabbed his arm in a painful grip.

"Listen," Sano hissed, "I dunno if you remember, but he can light that sword on fire and he's got gunpowder in his glove. Be careful."

Kenshin nodded once. "Understood."

The arena Shishio had procured for this duel was not half as theatrical as the temple above Kyoto had been, but it was impressive in its own right. Tiled in gray, and well lit by crackling fluorescents, it was broad and tall-ceilinged. A motto or quote of some sort was written in Arabic on the far wall.

"Well! The time has come." Shishio shrugged off his jacket and walked into the arena. "Make yourself ready, Battousai. This is the last warning you'll get."

Not speaking, Kenshin doffed his own jacket and made sure his sword was loose in its sheath. He tightened his ponytail and took a deep breath, running through a couple of quick meditation exercises. He was as ready as he'd ever be.

"Whatever happens, don't interfere." Kenshin said under his breath to Sano. "If you see a chance to get yourself out, take it."

"I make no promises," Sanosuke grumbled. Kenshin shot a dirty look over his shoulder, moving heavily down the stairs. Each step felt oddly…portentous; he couldn't take it back, couldn't undo what had been done. This was heavy, irrevocable, and _final_.

"Shishio Makoto, Mugenjin-_ryu_." Shishio stood utterly at his ease, his saw-toothed katana unsheathed in his right hand.

"Himura Battousai, Hiten Mitsurugi-_ryu_." Kenshin sank into a _battoujutsu_ stance, feeling the innate _rightness_ in muscle and bone. Even now, at the brink of death and despair, the sword crooned a siren song to his innermost soul.

But even that wasn't enough to compel him to linger. This duel was a farce, and he wanted it _over_.

As though reading his mind, Shishio struck. "Die, Battousai!"

An hysterical, split-second urge to roll his eyes welled up in Kenshin as he drew like lightning and parried the overhand blow—it was stronger than he'd expected, even factoring in the differences between their age and muscle mass, and sent a shiver up his arms. He shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword and counter-attacked, slicing toward Shishio's belly. He was desperate to finish this and _get out_, one way or another—_where is my mother I need her to be safe, I hope she's all right I'll kill him if he's hurt her—_

The Mugenjin turned Kenshin's katana aside and flickered, snake-quick, toward his jugular. Eyes trained on that viciously serrated blade, he almost missed the punch aimed at his jaw. A bit of fancy footwork and a tightly controlled backflip were the only things that kept him from a debilitating hit.

_He's quick!_ Kenshin took three fast steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Shihio, and aimed a two-handed overhand blow at the vulnerable junction of neck and shoulder.

It was parried neatly, and Kenshin slid away from the textbook-perfect _kesagiri _that would have sliced him in half diagonally, but only fluttered his hair as it passed. He responded with a strong flat thrust toward the groin veins, which Shishio spun away from neatly. They were testing the waters, learning the other's skill and style. Kenshin decided to up the ante. He jumped high, rolled, and came up from beneath in a splitting cut—the _sakekaze_—that would carve open his target from balls to brains.

Shishio blocked with the hilt of his blade and their swords locked; immediately Kenshin knew this was bad, his opponent had a foot of height and a hundred and ten pounds of weight on him and this kind of situation came down to contest of strength—and Kenshin was clearly not going to win it. He was close enough to see the flecks of hazel in the madman's dark eyes, smell the garlic on his hot breath. Shishio grinned and broke the lock, shoving Kenshin off balance. Staggering, Kenshin wondered frantically, _Why did he do that? He _had_ me. He's planning something!_

Cackling out loud, Shishio scraped the length of Mugenjin's serrated edge against the flat of Kenshin's katana; Kenshin smelled the ignition of the oil before he saw the yellow flicker.

The shock of unexpected pyrotechnics as well as the near-fall he'd taken slowed Kenshin's reaction time infinitesimally, but in this fight fractions were enough. He could see the thrust coming, aimed at his diaphragm, but he was in the wrong position to block and could only deflect it; shoving his own blade up and around, away from his vital organs and toward expendable muscle.

Even with the knowledge that he was protecting himself, the sensation of steel sliding into flesh was sickening. Shishio hit him just below the collarbone, and Kenshin could feel the saw-edge catching bits of tissue as it was withdrawn. Then it began to burn.

Kenshin heard Sano yell, heard Yumi laugh delightedly and Shishio's shout of triumph, but for a tenth of an instant his world narrowed to the pain in his shoulder: The red haze obscuring his vision and the warm seeping of blood down his chest and arm.

Then something… something inside him seemed to snap, like the breaking of the last brittle layer of iron shackling a demon too long bound. He was _tired_ of being hurt, _tired_ of being manipulated and deceived.

Kenshin was tired of being afraid.

"_Doryuusen!"_

The floor rose in a wave of shredded tile and splintered wood, peppering Shishio with dangerous projectiles. An inhumanly high jump saved him a great deal of damage, but Kenshin followed behind the debris, swinging his sword two-handed toward Shishio's unprotected middle. Shishio ducked down, and Kenshin's sword skittered off his ribs instead of sliding smoothly between.

After that, the battle turned into a game of attrition. Kenshin was faster than Shishio by a hair, but Shishio had the advantage of good health and greater upper body strength. He could outlast Kenshin so long as he didn't take too much damage.

Kenshin was holding his own for now, and fighting better than he ever had before, but Shishio was wearing him down. To an untrained eye it might look as though they were just exchanging blows, but the older man was controlling the pace of the duel with a conditioning, stamina, and equilibrium Kenshin simply lacked. And Kenshin was getting tired. He'd completely lost track of all his nicks and bruises, except for the shoulder injury that slowly drained his lifeblood onto the floor.

High strike, aim for the ankles, dodge an overhand blow and use the moment's grace to resheathe the _katana_ for a _battoujutsu_; follow it up with the _saya _to make it a _Souryusen_, and—

Connection!

Kenshin smashed Shishio's right kneecap, noting peripherally Yumi's outraged shriek and Sano's elated whoop. It was, however, the look of fury on Shishio's face as he stood that made Kenshin's gut clench, a twisted expression that bordered on madness.

Exhausted enough to miss the subtle and even not-so-subtle cues, Kenshin didn't even see the blow that broke his wrist. Shishio had smashed his gauntleted fist against Kenshin's arm, trapping his wrist between arm-guard and sword-hilt and _twisting_. In the instant when the world went gray, Shishio grabbed the front of his t-shirt, hauled him up, and punched his already-injured shoulder.

When he came to his senses his world was a concussion of explosion and an unbearable burning in his chest. Kenshin felt the impact of the floor against his left shoulder and hip and he screamed.

"Pitiful." Kenshin could hear Shishio coming, but he couldn't pull himself together long enough even to dodge the kick that smashed his ribs. Now he couldn't even _draw_ breath to scream, he was suffocating…

"You actually put up a half-decent fight," Shishio said, his bloody sword teasing the pulse point in Kenshin's throat. "The best I've had in years, in fact. But you've been fairly defeated, and now nothing stands in the way of my conquest."

Yumi sashayed over and draped herself over Shishio's arm. "It seems a shame to kill him so quickly," she said. "Wouldn't it be better if-?"

"He dies now," Shishio interrupted. "He's too resourceful to be allowed to live any longer."

Serrated Mugenjin, no longer shiny now that it was coated with tacky, drying scarlet, was raised high above Shishio's head. For one crystalline, endless moment, it seemed to hang there, weightless, and eternity crammed into nothing.

_If I just let him, it could all be over. It wouldn't hurt any more…._

_But I don't know that for sure. I came back once; I could come back again. Maybe if I defeat him, kill him, it'll end the cycle…._

…_and I _want_ to live! For Tomoe and Kaoru and Shishou and _ME_. I'm not going to let it end here. YOU CAN'T STOP ME!_

The opening was miniscule, but 'god-like speed' was aptly named. Kenshin slammed his foot against the inside of Shishio's ankle, breaking his stance, ignoring the red sheets of pain that wavered to black and back again, and punched his knuckles into the back of Shishio's shattered knee; he sensed more than saw Shishio fall.

It was exquisite agony, but he was on his feet. He heard Yumi yelling, saw Shishio's mouth move, but more importantly saw the fragile skin and slender bones of the neck left unprotected. His sword seemed weightless as he raised it.

_I'll not be a hitokiri anymore. After the Revolution is over I won't take another life._

_I don't kill._

_How could a backwards blade harm anyone?_

_Vowing life and soul to the sword, this life of battle shall be lived out._

"_Please,_ no!" Yumi shouted.

Skin parted, bone shattered, flesh cleaved from flesh and blood sprayed, and there was almost no resistance; it seemed unreal. Kenshin moved as though finishing a kata, stance perfect and _chiburi_ smooth, a practiced flick to remove the blood from the blade.

Silence fell, loud and ringing in his ears.

It was over. It felt anticlimactic, but somehow, finally, it was over.


	19. Sound the Bugle

Big thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Here is the next installment!

* * *

_Now I can't go on; I can't even start_

_I've got nothing left, just an empty heart._

_Sound the Bugle_, from Spirit

* * *

A moment of perfect silence, as if the whole world held its breath at once….

Then Yumi screamed.

"You killed him!" she shrieked. Her lover's blood peppered her face and throat and soaked the front of her dress, plastering it to her body. "You demon! You killed him!"

Kenshin heard the sounds of a scuffle and glanced to the sidelines. Sano, looking a bit worse for wear with a split lip and a broken nose, was brawling with a pair of Shishio's soldiers.

Yumi grabbed Kenshin's shoulders and shook him hard. "You infidel son of a _dog_! You killed him!"

Sano won his fight. Both the rough-looking soldiers were crumpled at his feet.

Looking into Yumi's tear- and blood-streaked face, Kenshin felt nothing. No compassion, no dislike, not even pity. Quietly, he asked, "Where is my mother?"

For a moment it looked as if Yumi didn't comprehend what he was saying. Then her mouth trembled, and twisted into a terrible parody of a smile.

"In the back," Yumi said, teeth bared. "You'll reap what you've sown, murderer!"

She turned her back on Kenshin, sinking with unspeakable grace beside the body. In a single motion she distanced herself in an unbreakable chrysalis of grief.

Stiff, like a marionette on broken strings, Kenshin turned toward the doors Yumi had indicated. Sano fell in beside him, wiping blood from his knuckles.

"You okay?" Sano asked. Kenshin noted that Sano looked as stiff as he himself felt.

"Fine," Kenshin said. "I'm fine."

"Y'know, 'fine' seems to cover everything from a paper cut, to something the cat dragged in, to _dead for three days_." Sano snapped. "Get some bandages on your shoulder before you bleed to death!"

"Later," Kenshin said, blinking to clear the odd blur from his vision. It didn't help. "I need to check on Mom first."

"_Kenshin no baka_!" Sano's tone was pure exasperation. "Don't be retarded!"

Knowing that if he stopped he'd never be able to start again, Kenshin ignored Sano and pressed past him to the doors. Making an inarticulate noise of fury, Sano followed.

With only one good arm, Kenshin awkwardly sheathed his sword. His hand ached when he loosed it from its death grip on the sharkskin-bound hilt, but he ignored the cramp and shoved the double doors open.

The room revealed was dim, and seemed to be some kind of storage area; at any rate it was full of boxes, old newspaper, and stacks of junk. For a moment Kenshin thought Yumi had lied to him. He scanned the room frantically, looking for any sign of clothes or hair or perfume—

He rounded the corner of a large wooden crate and his stomach dropped out with relief. He'd spotted a shape curled on its side on a rough pallet, but there was no mistaking that fall of silky hair.

"Mom!" Kenshin felt like a cripple as he hobbled over and dropped to his knees beside her. "Oh God, Mom, are you okay? I…"

There was something cold and thickly gelatinous on his mother's chest. With a sick sensation of dread, Kenshin rolled her onto her back, staring in horror.

Elen's slender body had been split from pubic bone to chin. Blood—so much blood, the thick taste of copper in the air—painted her skin, and her china-white face was frozen in an expression of unadulterated terror.

"No." It wasn't real, couldn't be real, it was some kind of sick joke. "Mom?"

"Kenshin?" Sano was behind him. "There's people coming, we've got to—aw, hell!"

Hesitant, Kenshin put three fingers on her wrist. It was cool, but… just skin. Nothing. An empty shell. "Please, no…"

* * *

Sano swore fluently, then crouched beside Kenshin and steadied his uninjured shoulder. Kenshin was staring blankly, pale and bloody and it was scaring Sano half to death. "Listen, buddy, I know this isn't the best time, but I bet money that there are going to be people here with guns very soon, and if we don't get out we won't be _able_ to get out." As he spoke he slid an arm around Kenshin's back. "Let's go."

"No!" Clutching at the crate next to him, Kenshin wavered. "I won't leave her here."

"Mary and _Joseph_-" Sano released Kenshin cautiously, watching a moment, then stripped the bloody sheet from the bed to wrap Elen's body in. He was just adjusting her weight on his shoulder so that he could comfortably carry her when a hollow _boom_! sounded from beyond the storage room.

"The door's not gonna hold long," Sano said, already weaving his way through the boxes toward the EXIT sign. Kenshin followed, usually-smooth gait stilted and clumsy. "I braced it with a piece of pipe one of Shishio's goons had, but we don't have much time… back door!"

A small, industrial metal door with a bar handle let them out into a weedy lot, surreal in the buttery sunshine.

"Gotta get outta here," Sano muttered, more to himself than anyone else. _The corpse and the guy who's dead on his feet,_ he thought, only semi-hysterical.

This was almost a courtyard space, tucked into the 'C' made by three buildings. It was asphalt, weeds, and trash, but to Sano it looked like the beginning of salvation. The farther away they were when the chase began, the better the chance they had of surviving it.

Choosing a door at random, Sano shifted Mrs. Harris' body and herded Kenshin toward it. His friend moved when prodded, but otherwise seemed quite content to let a rabid mob find them and tear them apart.

The door was unlocked, and Sano blessed the god of harebrained escapees. Carefully, he opened it a crack and peered inside. The hallway was dark and empty. Sano thought he saw a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but chalked it up to stress.

Flinging the door wide, he hustled his charges into what appeared to be an industrial office building, all particle board furnishings and cheap linoleum. Choosing doors and hallways at random, he led them through a rabbits' warren of corridors, pausing each time to check for occupancy. On the second floor, he discovered he'd had good reason to do so.

Gently setting Mrs. Harris' body on the floor, he whispered to Kenshin, "Listen, there're six guys in the next room with semi-autos. I want you to stay here while I deal with it, okay?"

"Fine." Kenshin said dully. He gave no other sign that he'd heard.

Hesitating, terrified that if he left Kenshin alone the redhead would disappear, Sano thought, _Wish I had _somebody_ here…._

A massive, unmistakable thump sounded, and the ground trembled. Anti-aircraft rockets—nothing else made that sound.

"Be careful what you wish for," Sano muttered. Another crashing _boom_, another tremor, and Sano realized with equal parts hope and horror that rescue was here. Either that or Yumi had gone crazy and set off every bomb in the place. He should have seen this coming—after all, the bad guy's hideout had blown up last time, too.

"Stay _here_," he admonished Kenshin a last time.

The element of surprise was your best friend in a fight of lopsided numbers, Sano knew. "Here goes nothing," he muttered.

"HAAAAAAH!" One Futae no Kiwami later, the door was so much dust on the floor, and he was staring into the faces of half a dozen armed, pissed-off hostiles.

The next few minutes were short and brutal. The first two soldiers went down at once, with their heads cracked together; another took a fist to the throat while the fourth was dispatched with a knee to the solar plexus. Then the element of surprise was gone and the remaining two pulled themselves together. One of them pulled an eighteen inch knife from a sheath on his leg.

Sano rolled to avoid a stab wound and broke an ankle—unsure to whom it belonged—beyond repair. The assailant went down with a howl and his gun clattered to the floor a few inches from Sano's left hand.

The recoil was a lot harder than he'd expected, and the noise was deafening, but these guys weren't going to be bothering anyone again.

Sano quickly unloaded the remaining clips from three other guns and tucked them in his pockets. _Machine gun, check. Now to get out of here before we attract any_ more_ attention._

"Kenshin?" on the other side of the door, the scene was unchanged. The redhead did not appear to have registered the scuffle that had taken place. _He's bleeding too much_. Sano thought, noting the pool of blood beneath Kenshin's feet._ He needs a hospital_.

"C'mon, man." Reshouldering his macabre burden, Sano put a single hand on the back of Kenshin's neck—the only part of him that seemed uninjured. "We gotta keep moving."

Mechanically—and _slowly_—they moved past the remains of Sano's skirmish. Kenshin didn't seem to notice the bodies, or the blood. Sano decided he was going to think of that as a good thing.

Another tremor rocked the floor. Risking being spotted, Sano poked his head out a window. Great billows of black smoke poured into the blue sky, and he saw small bands of dark-faced, armed men headed in their direction. None of them looked friendly.

_We're not getting out of here without a fight—and we're in no condition to fight_. Forget the blood that puddled beneath Kenshin every time he stopped moving: two of Sano's fingers were broken, his abdomen was a mass of bruises, something wasn't right with his ribs (bruised or broken, he wasn't sure) and he was fairly sure he had a concussion.

_PLEASE hurry, Hiko_.

On the other side of the room, they had two options: a set of upward stairs or another hallway. Reason now seemed to suggest that rescue was a great deal more likely than escape at this point. Their best chance for survival was to hole up, shoot anything that moved, and wait for reinforcements.

He chose the stairs.

Getting up to the fifth and top floor was agony. It was a measure of Kenshin's trust—or his shock, Sano thought grimly—that the exhausted _hitokiri_ made no complaint at the torturous ascent. Sano's ribs ached horribly, and each step sent lancets of fire through his head; Kenshin couldn't be faring any better. His breathing was heavy and labored, and the occasional involuntary grunt of pain escaped him, but not another sound.

Sano found an empty room with windows on two sides. He'd found a gold mine of fortress-making supplies; apparently under construction, several rooms contained plywood, two-by-fours, nails, and a couple of hammers. Sano put them to good use reinforcing the doors and windows, leaving only slits for looking and shooting. Kenshin had sunk to the floor beside his mother and seemed halfway between comatose and dead.

_Ka-ka-klatta-ka_! Sano heard the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire and peered out the window slit.

"_Yes!"_ Fully half the men firing below were clearly Shishio's, but the others wore the cobalt blue uniforms of the International Terrorist Task Force, Hiko and Saitou's brainchild and under their direct command. Salvation was at hand.

There was no way, however, to get their attention. Sano couldn't exactly stick his head out the window without getting it shot.

There was a whisper of movement behind him, as of cloth sliding over the floor. Sano spun, gun swinging around to train itself on the slim figure in the doorway.

Seta Soujiro, in a white business shirt, blue _haori_, and blue _hakama_, was standing in the doorway with both hands held up in surrender.

"What do you want?" Sano spat, keeping the gun's muzzle pointed squarely at the Tenken's center of mass. Kenshin might have some kind of disturbed understanding with Shishio's numero uno lackey, but Sano trusted that creepy grin about as far as he could outrun it. Which wasn't far at all.

"I came to help," Soujiro said, hands well away from the _katana _at his side. Sano was not comforted by the sheathed sword one little bit, since Soujiro's specialty was _battoujutsu_. "Is Battousai-_san…_?"

"Hell no," Sano said. "His mother's dead and he's hurt." As an afterthought, "And if you touch him I'll-"

"I'm not going to do anything!" Soujiro protested. "Shishio-_sama_ never said we were going to hurt her. He told me we were going to let her go."

"And you _believed _him?" Sano asked incredulously. "Are you stupid or something?"

Soujiro's eyes were sad, and curiously empty as he stared at Mrs. Harris' body. "He never lied to me before."

Sano was barely able to suppress his frustration (and concomitant desire to shoot) as he answered, "First time for everything, apparently. _Now what do you want?_"

"I told you. I want to help." Soujiro hadn't yet moved a muscle, which was good. If he had he'd have been shot. "I… admire Himura-_san_. In a lot of ways, we are the same."

"Kenshin's a better person than you'll ever be," Sano told him. "Now get lost."

"Yes," Soujiro agreed. "I'm sure he is. But he's dying, you know. No one can lose that much blood and live."

That sentence was uttered with the same passionless, pleasant expression as his other platitudes had been.

Sano thought furiously about his options. He could a) shoot the bastard repeatedly, b) attempt to tie him up, c) actually send him off for help, d) shoot the bastard repeatedly, or e) a & d.

Option (e) was looking more and more attractive, but Kenshin really did need the help.

Gun not wavering an inch, Sano did his best to communicate the course of his relationship with the Tenken.

"Listen here," he said tightly. "If you really want to help, you need to find Hiko and bring him back here. As fast as you can, okay?"

Soujiro nodded tightly. "I can do that. You've got a few minutes before the fighting moves this way, but keep careful watch."

He was gone before Sano could retort.

* * *

Hiko glared out over the battlefield, imagining various ways to torture his none-too-bright apprentice for this latest stunt. Bamboo slivers under the fingernails, Chinese water torture, babysitting the entire Saitou clan… the possibilities were endless. They just had to find him in one piece first.

His radio buzzed, and Hiko picked it up. "Oh-two-one speaking."

"Oh-two-one, this is oh-one-three." Oh-one-three was Okina's call sign.

"Go ahead," Hiko said.

"Negative on sector three. Repeat: negative on sector three."

Hiko resisted the urge to pound a fist on the railing. "Copy that, three. Continue searching."

"Copy that, one. Over and out."

If anyone could find Kenshin and Sano, it would be Aoshi and Okina. They were the experts in infiltration and extraction. Hiko's job was to keep the perimeter secure long enough for them to make it happen.

He drummed his fingers on the counter, over and over and over again.

There was a sudden commotion at the base of the tower on which Hiko was standing. A small figure darted with inhuman speed between two of the guards, and for one heart-stopping moment Hiko thought it was Kenshin.

But the person that darted up the wall in a lightning-fast series of jumps had dark hair, and lacked Kenshin's exceptional grace. Only the speed and the build were the same.

Soujiro landed on the wall, flexing into the impact and standing up with a ready grin. He sketched a bow and said, "Good afternoon, Hiko-_sama_."

"Soujiro." Hiko replied. He was, quite frankly, furious. He'd chased the little punk all over Europe, the Middle East, and North America, and now Soujiro had the _gall_ to show up in front of him in broad daylight? It was disrespectful.

"Sagara-_san_ sent me." Soujiro said. "He has Himura-_san_ with him, and they're both rather badly injured."

_Throttle obnoxious little pissant later_, Hiko thought to himself. _Rescue obnoxious little apprentice now_. "Where is he?"

"Tallest building in the complex, top floo—ulp!"

Hiko watched with a little wriggle of pleasure as Soujiro went down in an unconscious heap. "Hammond!" he called to the tall ninja who was Aoshi's second in command. "Tie up this idiot before he wakes up and call his mother. And have my Medivac chopper ready."

He snatched up his supply bag and took off with every ounce of speed at his disposal, making for the rescue of his wayward apprentice.

The sting operation was going entirely according to plan. Hiko's operatives had attacked from two sides in an extremely effective pincer maneuver, herding the terrorists against one wall of the compound. Once they picked off a few of the ringleaders the rest would be given the opportunity to surrender, hopefully with a minimum of bloodshed. That was the tactical evaluation, at any rate, the x's and o's on the dry-erase board.

The reality was… messier.

A pall of smoke from the fires hung over the entire site, a gray-black film over the blue sky. Small bands of terrorists roved the compound, shooting anything that moved, while operatives chased them in an equally deadly game of cat and mouse. Hiko spotted at least a dozen bodies, mostly terrorists, but anger burned low in his belly when he recognized some of the operatives he had recruited himself.

He jogged at a good pace through the camp, ducking occasionally behind a bit of debris to avoid gunfire. It half-killed him not to stop and engage in turning his enemies into sashimi, but time could very well be of the essence. He wasn't going to stop unless he absolutely had to.

A spray of bullet fire cast a sheet of dirt over his boots and Hiko vaulted over three of the insurgents, skewering a fellow who really ought to be old enough to know better, and knocking out his two teenage compatriots. The Juppongatana these guys were definitely not.

Finally he spotted the building Soujiro had mentioned. Eschewing the inside stairs-which could very well be guarded-instead he quickly and easily scaled the side of the building. Cheap, industrial brick provided a surprisingly excellent series of footholds.

Hiko gauged carefully where Sano and Kenshin ought to be, if Rooster-Brain had learned anything about tactics. Judging by the position of the building windows, he ought to be able to smash the boarded-up window with a modified Douryuusen in such a way that he didn't further injure anyone inside.

No matter how much they deserved it.

The window and a portion of the wall shattered in chunks of wood and slivers of glass; he swung easily through the gaping hole, taking in the room with a single sharp glance. What he saw was definitely not good.

Sanosuke was kneeling beside Kenshin, doing his best to keep pressure on a bleeding shoulder wound. Judging by the amount of blood pooled beneath Kenshin, a significant vein or possibly and artery might be damaged. There was also a long, shrouded form lying on the floor behind them; the chestnut curls meant that it was Kenshin's mother.

_Hell._

"Good God," Hiko groaned. He needed to keep them both calm, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Sanosuke, you are grounded for the rest of your natural life. _After_ I kill you. What happened to him?" he dropped to his knees beside Kenshin, flicking a penlight in Kenshin's eyes and tearing the sleeve off Kenshin's t-shirt, the better to critically study the mangled shoulder.

"He killed Shishio," Sano said hurriedly. "Shishio used the Homura Dama on his shoulder and stabbed him and broke his wrist. I'm pretty sure he has a concussion, and…." Sano threw up his hands helplessly. "I tried to bandage him up but he's been bleeding a lot, that's all I know!"

"Kenshin," Seijuro pulled Kenshin's chin so that he was looking his apprentice in the face. "Listen to me. This place isn't secure and we need to tend to your injuries. Let go of your mother and let's get the bleeding stopped."

Kenshin looked up. "I killed her, Shishou." He said. "Same as if I held the sword."

Hiko's gut twisted. The look in those eyes... well, last time he had seen it, the fellow had been dead of self-strangulation within days. "You're going to kill yourself hemorrhaging," Hiko snapped. "Pull it together!"

Kenshin glanced at the shrouded form by the wall and shuddered; then he turned, trembling, and fixed his eyes on the far wall.

With brisk efficiency Hiko laid a clean sheet on the floor and forced Kenshin to lay down on it. "Sanosuke, come here. I need Betadine, gauze, tape, and the long silver tube. Also get out the Ace bandage and those two wooden rods. Now!"

Kenshin lay stoically while Hiko re-taped his shoulder, casting aside Sano's sodden attempt. He cried out only once, when Hiko stabilized his wrist; the bone would have to be set with the help of x-rays, but it was still agony to move.

"There," Hiko said, putting the last pressure dressing into place. He sat back on his heels and fixed his apprentice with a beady stare. "Listen to me, Kenshin. What happened here is not your fault. It looks to me like she's been dead for at least fourteen hours, before you ever decided to get on a plane. There was nothing you could have done."

Kenshin sat up slowly and ground the heel of one hand to the bones of his face. "I want to go home."

Hiko's dark eyes were unreadable. "I have a chopper on the roof. Can you stand?"

"Yeah." And stand he did—but immediately he stumbled, and would have fallen had Hiko not caught him around the wrist.

"If you were dizzy you should have said something," Hiko scolded.

"I don't… feel so good," Kenshin admitted, swaying a bit as he clung to Hiko's forearm.

"You may need a blood transfusion," Hiko murmured.

Kenshin was so exhausted that he didn't protest as Hiko picked him up like a child, just stared glassily into the distance.

"Get the bag," Hiko snapped at Sano, "And let's get out of this hellhole."


End file.
